Everything Out Of The Ordinary
by CowMow
Summary: When Sherlock gets shot Mycroft and John decide to bring Sherlock to his parents' home, where Sherlock shows a different side of him. But Jim is lurking, and Sherlock's childhood memories are re-awakened. Many genres, perhaps Sherlock/OC.
1. I

"Sherlock..! Sherlock! Where the hell are you!" John shouted, running towards the deserted factory while looking for Sherlock.

"Always!" he angrily muttered to himself. "Let the man go out of your sight for a few seconds, and off he is.. Couldn't even wait for me. You should hear him when I do that. The hypocrite." He took a deep breath and shouted again. "Sherlock!"

With one hand he carefully pushed against the door, slipped inside and closed the door behind him softly. The blood rushed in his ears, his heartbeat throbbed in his throat. He felt the adrenaline pushing through his body, putting all his senses on alert.

All John heard was the returning echo of his own tense voice and the soft noise of the bloodflow in his ears. He slowed his pace, feeling the need to pay more attention and caution. Suddenly he felt uneasy, like some sixth sense that told him to be very careful. Responding to that feeling, as doing so before had saved his life a couple of times, he took out his gun and loaded it. This factory was dark, its intense silence deafening. He backed against a large container, peeping around the edge of it, trying to get some sort of overview of the factory. He couldn't see much, but he could see an outstretched arm nearby, lying lifelessly on the floor, sticking out from behind a piece of machinery. Trying to control and slow down his breathing, John carefully slid around the edge, to find out to whom that arm belonged. It turned out not to be lifeless at all, _thankfully_, and belonging to a man unknown to John. The man was still breathing but knocked unconscious, John quickly diagnosed. _But where was Sherlock!_

He took out his mobile phone to call Lestrade, softly explaining the situation as soon as Lestrade picked up. After the call with Lestrade was ended, he dialed Sherlock's number, but the telephone wasn't picked up. _Bloody hell, Sherlock!_

He stood looking down at the unconscious man on the floor, deciding what he had to do. He would gain consciousness very soon, so John used his belt to strap the guy to a pillar that supported the roof. At least that guy wasn't going anywhere.

His eyes soon darted through the large hall again. All the machinery was blocking most of his sight, so it was hard to look the whole place over. _Damn it, Sherlock! Why couldn't you just wait for me?_

Suddenly, in the far back of the factory, John heard four muffled bangs. _Gunshots_. First, he stood as frozen, but then, as fast as his legs allowed him to, he ran towards the spot with only one thought on his mind.

_Sherlock hadn't carried a weapon_.

He was sure of it, and the thought of what could have happened formed a lump in his stomach. His breathing got heavier as he saw the sight. He speeded himself towards the dark object that lay motionlessly on the dusty floor. He knelt down beside his best friend, not knowing what to do. _God, please let him live._

He grapped the tall man's thin wrist, searching for a pulse. Relief flooded through him when he felt the reassuring throb under his fingers. He looked down at his friend, his hands moving, trembling over Sherlock's body, not really knowing what to do now. Scarf. The scarf had to go away first. Air, Sherlock had to breath. Get him on his back. Check the wounds, can't be more than two. _Please, no!_ Bandage, he needed bandage. Was Sherlock still breathing?

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked almost breahtlessly, a shiver had crept in his normally steady voice. The detective's face was white, deadly white. Like marble. Lifeless marble. The gentle dark curls lay around his head as an aureola. The consulting detective looked so young and vulnerable that it scared John. Sherlock never was vulnerable, he always had complete control over the situation. John searched for a pulse again, when the dark-haired man's eyelids shivered, fluttered open a bit.

"J-John, you're here," the wounded man breathed painfully, uneven. "He shot me, I didn't kno.."

"Shhh now, Sherlock. I'm here." John really tried to sound comforting, but he had seen so many soldiers like this. This was his friend, his best friend. This was Sherlock. Who had closed his eyes already. Who could die here if it wasn't John who did the necessary things. Sherlock's head had tilted a little to the right, revealing a quickly growing pool of crimson liquid. His dark curls, looking like an aureole just seconds ago, had turned dark, sticky red, betraying their owner. This was never supposed to have happened. Not ever. John, yes, John got hurt now and then. Sprained ankle, bruises, black eye, cuts. But not Sherlock. Sherlock never got himself wounded. Sherlock always knew the track of the bullet before it had been fired, knew the murderer's next step before the criminal knew it himself. The detective was always full of life. Even when lying on the sofa, bored to death, he placed sharp remarks, his mind always observing. Sherlock always was alive. When he was asleep, he was full if movement, and John was the right one to know. And with being alive, he had made John feel alive too. Sherlock simply never could get hurt.

"Sherlock, wake up. Stay with me," John pleaded as Sherlock closed his eyes again, ripping open the tall man's purple shirt, pulling off all the buttons during the process but not paying attention as his eyes were fixed on his friend's white face only. Experienced, his hands controlled every inch of his friend's body, looking for other wounds, apart from the bullets in Sherlock's shoulder and side. When he had finally checked Sherlock's body for other injuries and found none, he paid attention to the wound on the back of Sherlock's head, which was bad, but it wouldn't be lethal. The shoulder wound could be exactly that. It was dark in the factory, but when John laid his hand on the wounds, it felt warm and soft, sticky, he didn't need to see. He pulled his hand back and looked at it, not wanting to see it, knowing what he would see. It was covered in dark red blood. Sherlock's blood. _Oh, shit. This definitely wasn't good._ His hands trembled while trying to wake his friend. He gave him soft slaps in the face, just hard enough to keep him awake, calling his name softly, and at long length Sherlock slowly opened his grey eyes. John released a breath he had no idea he had been holding.

Ambulance. Sherlock needed an ambulance. _How much time had he wasted already?_ With shaking hands he dialed the number, and with an faltering voice he tried to explain what had happened. Thankfully, the woman on the other end of the line was accustomed to emergencies like this. Within the minute she had all the information she needed.

Sherlock's breathing was shallow and far too quick. _How long has he been like this?_ Quickly, John glanced at his watch. Over 5 minutes now. The police should have been here already. John was at the end of his wits, he didn't know what to do, so he just kept pressing his ripped shirt against his friend's wounds, trying to make the bleeding stop, his gaze constantly fixed on his unconscious friend.

Oh, what a bloody mess this was. Literally bloody. And today had started off so normally, like today was just going to be an ordinary day. A man had come in this morning, a retired judge. Thankfully, it promised to be an interesting case. Sherlock had been very bored, and thus very annoying and rude, these past few days. It promised to be dangerous too, but hey, that's what the two of them were for, weren't they?

But now here he was, desperately trying to keep Sherlock conscious. Sherlock had said that the judge had been married four times, six children, switched jobs two times, a long-time user of his shoes as the laces had been changed three times which indicated a poor-paid job, then. Interesting case, Sherlock had said, delighted. Well, it had been interesting. Just the fact some smugglers were involved, with guns, that was the turn up John didn't really like. Especially not when Sherlock had announced he knew when the deal took place and there had been no time to call the police. How John wished they had taken the time to call them. Too late now.

More cloth, he needed more. His jumper he had laid under Sherlock's head to make his friend's position a little more comfortable, as far as one could be comfortable on the cold, dusty concrete floor. At least the head injury had stopped bleading. John had already ripped his shirt, trying to stem the bleeding from both the wounds. Sherlock's body started shaking uncontrolably, with hands turned cold John covered him as well as possible with his own long coat, while he kept on talking to his friend, just to keep him conscious. It could be shock, it probably was shock, but it scared all the wits John had left out of him. _Sherlock, stay with me_, John silently prayed while the blood rhythmicly pulsated from the wounds over the doctor's hands.

After what seemed an century, sirens wailed in the far distance.

"Sherlock? Do you hear that? The police and ambulance are on their way," John said, feeling tense and anxious. The wounds were bad, he saw that. Also, the shaking was even more worrying. He had seen this much too often. There were times he still saw his mates, haunting him in his dreams, punishing the blogger for surviving.

Sherlock's face was clammy, his breathing stopped now and then. John heard soft moans of pain coming from Sherlock's slightly opened mouth. With an unsteady hand, John brushed aside some of the dark curls in the detective's cold face. It caused a grimace in the porcelain face.

"I-it's fine, J-John," Sherlock stammered, trying very hard to make a coherent sentence, keeping his thoughts together. John grabbed his hand, holding it close to his chest.

"H-how bad is i-it?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still closed, although the raven-haired man tried very hard to open his eyes.

"Well, you know, the normal condition you're in when you've had a blow on the head and two bullets in your body," John said, anxiously trying to keep things light.

"O-ordinary i-is so d-dull."

John smiled, despite the situation.

"J-John? I just wanted to-to say to you, th-that you have been a w-wonderful friend. To me." Sherlock's teeth chattered against each other because of the cold.

"O, shut up. Shut up, please," John begged. "Now it sounds like you're dying."

Sherlock opened his eyes, a faint smile wrinkled the skin around to his silver-grey pools. One of the rare, genuine smiles. "I'm g-glad you-you're okay."

"No, Sherlock. Don't give me this bullshit. Don't you dare leave me!" John almost screamed.

"Oh John… the brave, b-blogging soldier," Sherlock panted, "you w-will save me-me, you always d-do, don't y-you?"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, stay with me. Stay with me! Of course I will," the blogger almost sobbed because of his fear, his inability to help his friend. _Sod it, no use to try and keep his tears hidden. His friend could see he was crying, and a good reason he had for it._

Sherlock felt himself gliding towards the edge of unconsciousness. He was still holding on with his fingertips, but the darkness under him was so inviting. _Oh, John. You should know how hard I am trying. But I'm so tired… Funny feeling though, normally I never am. Sleeping is dull, but I am so sorry, John. I'm so tired. Just a minute, allow me a minute sleep. Just… one… little minute, John. Safe me, hang on for me, will you do this for me?_

A soft, melancholic smile darted around Sherlock's already blue lips the moment he let go. That was the moment John knew it had gone wrong.

Suddenly, John felt two hands in his armpits, two strong arms lifting him up from his knees and dragging him away from his friend to make space for the paramedics. They made a lot of fuzz, infusions were brought, one of the men had already started CPR.

"Careful with him! You might break his ribs. He's fine, he was just talking to me!"

John didn't know where the raw, rasp voice came from, until the sobs that interrupted the speech tore apart his chest, unableing him to speak.

"John!" Lestrade took a strong but gentle grip on the blogger's shoulders, facing him by bringing his eyes on the same level. "John, listen to me. They will take good care of him, you come with me."

But John didn't listen, his gaze was fixed on Sherlock only. The unconscious consulting detective wasn't breathing anymore, one of the paramedics surrounding the injured man yelled for an oxygen mask. Soon the oxygen mask covered the most of Sherlock's face. He was lifted on a stretcher and carried away by the paramedics really quickly. John made attempts to break loose from the DI's firm grip, but Lestrade wouldn't let him go.

"John, let them do their work. He is breathing, he has a heartbeat again . Come with me," and with gentle but persevering hands he guided the numbed blogger outside, arriving at the DI's car just when the ambulance took of with wailing sirens.

ToBeContinued


	2. II

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep_.

John had to admit that the soft, regular beeps from the heart monitor were very soothing. Well, he had of course been listening to them for over 48 hours now so he started to hear a pattern in them, and now he was nodding off at last, lullabied by the rhythmic beeps. His chair he had placed opposite the bed to keep a better look on his friend, leaning against the white wall. Not really comfortable but it was a price he was more than willing to pay.

Just when he was almost asleep, he felt a hand softly touching his shoulder. He sat up straight immediately, blinking at Molly.

She pointed towards the bed where Sherlock lay, motionless. "How is he?" she asked, a slight shiver in her soft voice.

John inhaled deeply and rubbed his eyes wearily, releasing his breath slowly.

"The same. Hasn't woken up, but the doctors say that would be too soon. He has lost a lot of blood, and the blow on his head was more severe than I initially thought." His voice weakened as he fixed his eyes on his friend. He walked stiffly over to the bed and looked down on the detective. The curls, now cleaned from blood, formed a sharp contrast with the white bandage across his head for the head injury, which made Sherlock's features grey and bloodless. The straight white sheets didn't flatter his complexion either.

"I shouldn't have let you go in there alone," he softly whispered.

Molly bit her lip, not really knowing what to say. So she offered, partly out of habit: "shall I get you some tea? Coffee? Perhaps some food?"

John turned around to face her, an incredulous look on his face as if to say: _food? Are you out of your mind? My friend is _dying_ and you ask me if I would like some _food_?_

Molly sighed, she feels she is too much now. John has always been very polite to her, but now all he has eyes for was his unconscious friend between the white sheets. But somehow, she wanted to be close to Sherlock, too. She knew she didn't have the right to do so, after all, she's just a pathetic girl with a crush on the most sexy and clever man alive. _Thank heavens, he still was…_

John heard the door open and be shut again behind his back. He slowly sank down on the stool beside the bed just to be closer to Sherlock. He gently wrapped his fingers around his friend's small and bony wrist, just to make sure the pulse was still there, not trusting the monitors. The vision of Sherlock lying in this pool of blood was not a reassuring sight, which kept returning everytime John dozed off a little. Sherlock looked better now. Well, that is what he told himself. The doctors were telling completely different things, but John didn't want to hear them. Sherlock was going to be fine. Didn't Sherlock always turn out fine? The amount of lost blood was at the least very worrying, and the blow on his head had caused serious damage too, but the detective would survive, John was sure of it.

"Well, Sherlock. Don't you think it's time to get up? You've been sleeping far too long now. I'm waiting, Sherlock." John let his head drop on his chest, breathing heavily. "I told Mycroft, he promised to come as soon as he could but he was busy with being the government, you know. And your parents will come too. I've never seen your parents, hopefully they are nice. You've never told me anything about them. Why don't you wake up? It's been over two days now. Please, Sherlock…"

The door was opened, interrupting him in his little, desperate speech, and the elder brother entered, his umbrella ticking on the floor softly. He was followed by two elder people, Sherlock's parents, _obviously_.

John quickly examined them both. Mrs Holmes was a kind-looking, grey-haired woman, almost as short as John. She was dressed in a clearly expensive but wrinkled suit, a tired and worried look in her friendly brown eyes. Her husband was a tall man, just like Sherlock and Mycroft. His grey, curly hair still had some darks strands in them. To be fairly honest, John had to admit that the resemblance with Sherlock was incredible. Mr Holmes sr. wasn't fancily dressed, just jeans and a jumper, apparently he had dressed in a hurry.

"John, our parents," Mycroft curtly interrupted John's observations. "Mum, Dad, this is John, Sherlock's flat-"

"Mycroft, we know very well who John is," Sherlock's mum interrupted, fixing her gaze on John. She tilted her head a little as if to look at John better. She suddenly stepped closer and hugged the small man.

"Sherlock has never told anything about you, that's a good sign," Sherlock's father said, a sad smile around his mouth, grabbing John's hand in a firm grasp as soon as his wife had let go of the man, shaking it curtly before allowing his hand to drop to his side again. Without wasting any more words, the pair moved quickly towards their unconscious son. Mr Holmes's eyes glided over his son and then, without turning to John, he said: "you were with Sherlock when it happened."

"Erm, yes, I was," John answered, not really sure if it was a question.

"You did react well, I heard."

John didn't answer, but he understood that somehow, this man thanked him, the same way Sherlock always did. He looked on as Sherlock's parents both sat down, each on one side of the bed holding one of Sherlock's hands. With a tender movement, Mrs Holmes laid her hand on her son's brow, caressing his face. She lifted her eyes to her husband and grabbed his free hand with her spare hand, and looked down on Sherlock again., Without saying anything, Mr Holmes squeezed her hand gently when some tears escaped from her brown eyes. Mr Holmes turned his eyes on Mycroft, who stepped closer towards his younger brother, a worried veil on his face.

They were too absorbed in watching their wounded son and brother, so that they paid no longer any notice to Sherlock's friend.

John felt he was too much and, without saying anything, he quietly opened the door and disappeared to the hall, leaving the Holmeses together in peace. Well, relative peace. Perhaps food wasn't such a bad idea after all. Sherlock was looked after now, and suddenly he felt his stomach rumbling. Wearied, he rubbed his eyes. _How long has it been since he had something to eat?_

He found his way to the canteen quickly, and ordered breakfast. Apparently it was time for breakfast. Not that it felt that way, but it was all the canteen had to offer.

He silently joined Molly, who sat there together with Lestrade, both coming in to check on Sherlock before they had to go to work. John smiled tiredly at both of them as appreciation, and started to eat.


	3. III

As soon as John had finished his silent breakfast, his two friends looked at each other, and at last, Lestrade fixed his eyes on John. "John, Molly and I, we thought you had better go home and get some sleep, away from here."

John's eyes darkened, while saying: "and why would I do that?"

Molly laid her hand comfortingly over John's, and quietly said: "John, you look like a ghost. If Sherlock woke up, he would be shocked to see you. Besides, you have to take care of yourself too. As soon as something happens, we will call you, of course."

"But 221B is half an hour away, that would take too long," John answered, very happy to have found an excuse.

Lestrade and Molly exchanged another look, which John failed to catch. "You could stay with us; my home is only a ten-minute drive away. If you'd like, of course," Lestrade offered.

John's eyes shot up. With his finger, he pointed towards the detective and the pathologist. "A-are you two together?" he asked incredulously.

Molly nodded. Another glance.

A small, sad smile played around John's mouth. "I'm happy for the both of you. Congrats. I think I'd better take the offer then. As a doctor, I always give the same advice anyway," John gave in at last. "Should I tell Mycroft?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It was his idea actually. I've texted him already."

"Ah…" John understood.

* * *

><p>When he lay in a strange bed thirty minutes later, he closed his eyes and let out a shaky, but contented sigh. Oh, he was tired indeed. It wasn't long before John drifted off to a soothing but not very restful sleep.<p>

* * *

><p>In the hospital, the beeping from the monitors continued, and Sherlock's mother was quietly sitting beside her son. She was still holding her son's hand, her head resting on Sherlock's covered legs. Mr. Holmes was pacing up and down the room, while Mycroft stood watching at his father. "Dad, you'd bet…"<p>

"I'd better what?" his father snapped.

"You'd better sit down." The tension in Mycroft's voice made it sound like an order.

His father stooped his pacing, placed his hands palm to palm against his lips, just that way his sons always did that, narrowing his eyes as he looked at his eldest. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you're driving me crazy! Sit down and relax, you're not helping Sherlock with this, Dad."

His father inhaled deeply, and said: "you have Sherlock under surveillance. How is it possible he got hurt?"

Mycroft sighed and sat down. "Well, you know Sherlock. He runs off, and it only took me ten minutes to find out where he went, but then it already was too late. I certainly couldn't help it, so don't blame me."

"You don't seem to be very affected by this. Your brother could die, and you are peace itself."

"Henry…" Mrs. Holmes pleaded. "Not now, please." Her brown eyes begged her husband and son to stop quarreling, and Mr. Holmes obeyed, but only after another sneer from Mycroft. "It's always my fault, isn't it? When he used cocaine and got an overdose, when he got kidnapped by Moriarty, when he gets shot. 'Oh, Mycroft, you are a lousy brother, you always fail to safe him', well I can tell you, I did ALL I COULD!" and with an angry look, _tears?_, on his face, he left the room.

Mr. Holmes was just about to follow him, when the soothing, rhythmic beeping from the monitor changed to the very well known, horribly steady, high-pitched tone. Mrs. Holmes's eyes widened and with shock readable on her face, she looked at Sherlock. The door opened, and the medical team ran in, pushing Sherlock's parents to the side of the room, allowing them to watch the fight for their son's life.

With trembling hand, Mr. Holmes dialed Mycroft's number, while Mrs. Holmes clung to him like he was her lifeline. "M-Mycroft, you might want to come back," he said.

"And why would I want to do that?" Mycroft's voice was cool and distant.

"Sherlock is in cardiac arrest, Mycroft."

* * *

><p>With sleep still in his eyes, John grabbed his mobile phone from the bedside table, and answered whoever was calling. His eyes flung open when he heard Mycroft's voice.<p>

"John, Sherlock has just gone into cardiac arrest. Apparently some inward bleeding, the doctors say."

"Oh my God," John said, numbed for a second. "Is he going into surgery?"

"Yes, John, he is right now. Shall I pick you up?'

"No, no. No, no need, I'll get a cab, or walk. I'll be right there!"

Within seconds he was dressed and downstairs, calling Molly and Lestrade, quickly explaining what had happened before leaving the house, stealing a cab from an old lady and hurrying to the hospital.

* * *

><p>Panting and gasping for breath, John climbed the stairs, unwilling to pause and gulp in the desired air, finally reaching the right floor, rushing through the doors inside the room where Sherlock had been. As could be expected, it was entirely empty. John shortly closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to slow his breathing down. When he heard noises at the door, he spun around on his heels, facing Mycroft.<p>

John didn't ask anything, but the look in John's eyes must have been readable, even by Mycroft.

"Follow me," Sherlock's brother said softly, walking away quicker than he usually does. John followed the man, meeting up with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who were sitting down in the waiting room.

"Any news?" John asked, his eyes darting from the man to the woman and back. Both shook their heads in denial. He sank down onto a chair and covered his eyes with his right hand.

"What happened?"

"Sudden bleeding, they don't know what happened or why," Mycroft answered, about to say more but his phone rang. With an apologetic look on his face, he stepped back and answered it, lowering his voice during the short conversation. He hung up, and turned towards his parents. "They found the guy who did this to Sherlock."

None of the people in the small, white room answered.

After ten minutes of silence, it became too much for Sherlock and Mycroft's mum, so she asked John: "you live with Sherlock, don't you?"

John nodded, giving the lady more time to gather her thoughts.

"Well, I'm glad we got to meet at last. We read your blog all the time. You seem to enjoy this, don't you?"

John nodded again, a smile broke through. "Yes, Mrs. Holmes, I do."

Mrs. Holmes smiled and grabbed John's left hand in hers. "I'm glad he found someone, at last. He never brought home any friends when he was a kid."

John smiled. "He must have pissed all his classmates off, he's not easy to live with, but, ooh... the thrill, the surprises..." His voice sounded dreamily.

"That sounds just like Sherlock, doesn't it, Alice," Mr. Holmes asked, a smile appearing in his eyes too.

"Yes! Do you remember when he brought that dead cat with him, and put it in a carton box under his bed, 'an experiment', as he called it. Well, he must have grown over that now," Mrs. Holmes brightened, looking at John, who shook his head.

"No, not really. One day, when he was shooting at the wall, I found a head in the fridge. Measuring the coagulation of saliva after death, he called it. Or thumbs, which gave our landlady quite a fright!" He softly giggled at the memories.

"You understand, John, we never hear anything from Sherlock. He sends us money now and then, and he arranged this posh job for me, but all we hear about him is through your blog and Mycroft." Her voice quivered a little, before quickly wiping her eyes.

She squeezed John's hand again, and then let his hand go.

John cleared his throat, and, just to have something to do, he proposed to get some coffee, which was accepted with many smiles and grateful looks.

When he came back with the cups, the waiting room was empty.


	4. IV

Well, here it is: part 4 from Everything Out of the Ordinary. I've really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I **really, _really, really_** want to thank TiaBolt for revising it. She did a truly great job, and I'm very grateful for what she has done. Applause for her, please!

Anyway, feel free to leave a comment. I'm working on chapter 5 already, hopefully that won't take me that long xD Please enjoy!

Kind regards, CowMow

* * *

><p>John stood in the middle of the room, the cups of coffee cooling in his hands, eyes darting around.<p>

"Sorry, sir," said a kind, female voice from behind, demanding his attention. John turned around to face her, sending question marks at her through his gaze.

She smiled and continued. "You are here for the detective who was shot? The doctors have just finished the surgery, sir. The family is with him already, so if you would like to follow me?" _Again that smile_.

John nodded and followed her, back to Sherlock's former room. The nurse happily babbled about Sherlock. "He is a real fighter, this Sherlock Holmes. Are you a relative?"

John shook his head absently. "Oh, sorry sir. Are you two together then?" John shook his head again, less absently this time. "No, we are not."

"Oh, I thought you were… Anyway, during the surgery, the doctors almost lost him. His heart was very weak, but well, your… friend, I suppose, didn't want to give in, so at last they were able to save him, and his heart, although his has lost a lot of blood, you know. Oh, here we are, sir. Sorry, I've got to go, my shift isn't finished yet. Bye, sir. "

John said goodbye to her politely, and took a deep breath, gathering courage to open the door, but it opened just as he was about to enter. Mycroft exited the room, followed by his parents.

"Is he- is he okay?" John breathlessly asked, handing them the cups of coffee.

Mrs. Holmes nodded, accepting the cup with a grateful, happy smile. "Yes, he is. There appeared to have been another wound somehow, but now everything is fine. He will wake up in two hours or so, so we will just be popping out for a bite, otherwise my stomach might wake Sherlock before he's due." She laughed softly, released from the anxiety of waiting.

John sighed deeply, relief flooded through his body, allowing the tension to release its hold of him at last.

"Can I go in?" he asked, looking at Sherlock's parents.

"Oh, yes, of course!" Mr. Holmes said, opening the door for the blogger. John mumbled a soft "thank you" and entered, making sure to close the door behind him.

He looked at Sherlock, lying in bed motionless, and his breath caught in his throat for a second. Sherlock looked even paler than he did before, and so, oh so very weak. Carefully, as if his footsteps could wake his friend, John moved toward the bed. Out of habit, his hand wrapped gently around Sherlock's wrist to feel the pulse, and he felt a very soft throb under his fingers. At the foot of the bed John found the report with the personal details, and he was shocked to see how much blood his friend needed and how much glucose he received through the infusion.

Oh, dear lord… his friend was starved, and that would certainly not be helping the healing process. John sighed, for the thousandth time today. He sank down on the stool and cupped his chin in his hands, his gaze fixed at Sherlock. He noticed every rise of his chest, every flutter of his eyelashes, every shaky breath.

He was disturbed by Mycroft, who, when he saw John still present, wanted to withdraw immediately, but John stood up quickly. "No, please, stay here, I was just about to go and get some fresh air. It might do me good." With a reassuring smile towards the tall man, he exited the room. He did, however, cast a glance through the window, and saw Mycroft sitting down on the stool he had been occupying just seconds ago. John's eyes softened when he noticed that Mycroft had covered Sherlock's hand, which lay limp on the white sheets, with his own. _Better leave the two of them alone_, John thought.

Suddenly, he remembered to call Molly and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, all three of them probably eager to learn of this improvement. John had to admit, he had rarely been happier to make a call.

* * *

><p>"Well, brother of mine," Mycroft started, as soon as John had left. "Got yourself in some pretty nasty business?"<p>

Mycroft knew this condition was going to be tough to conquer, even for his younger brother. The man, lying lifelessly in this bed, reminded him of the boy he had sworn to protect whatever the cost. And though Mycroft hated to admit it, he had failed. Big time. Well, Sherlock had never been one to give in. Not when he returned home, always having a bleeding nose because the older kids didn't like him. Not when no one showed up at Sherlock's birthday party. Not when mummy found the dead cat under his bed and took it, despite Sherlock's protests his experiment wasn't finished yet. Not when his brain just went on and on and on, and Sherlock finally had to admit there was no way that his brain would go to rest. Mycroft knew what Sherlock had been going through, he was in fact the only one to understand his little brother. His parents were lovely people, but they didn't understand. Not really.

Mycroft sighed. "It would be very untypical of you to give in now, Sherlock. Mum and dad are very worried about you, you know. They came all the way from France, before they could start their well-deserved holiday, because you thought it was about time to get shot." He chuckled drily, sadly too. "Oh, foolish brother of mine. You never listen, do you?"

Mycroft tightened the grip on his brother's wrist a little. He was unwilling to admit it, but he was scared. He rarely was, but hey, he was only human. His little brother had been in danger, and although both of them were grown-ups, he still felt protective and as such, occasionally some caring emotions would emerge from the cold outer shell.

Mycroft was lost in thought, memories, should-have-been's, when the door opened and his parents entered, after having lunch. He didn't move, but allowed his eyes to keep resting on Sherlock.

"He reminds me of when he was twelve," Mrs. Holmes quietly said. "He had been doing this experiment. 'How long can a human body go without sleep.' I found him asleep on the floor of the living room. He was completely exhausted, had those black circles around his eyes, just as pale as now." His mother sniffed a bit. "At least, then I _knew_ he would be alright."

"Well, Mycroft, happy now? Weren't you the one that swore to protect him?" Mr. Holmes asked rather harshly. Mycroft inhales deeply, but refused to answer, while Mrs. Holmes pleaded, laying her hand on his sleeve to stop her husband. "Henry, not now, please."

Now Mycroft turned, still sitting down, still his hand protectively covering Sherlock's. "Not now? Well, when would you like to humble, humiliate and scold me? Tomorrow? The day after?" He almost shouted, and his parents looked at him with widened eyes. Mycroft never had been a person of outbursts, that was more Sherlock's department.

"Oh, please. SHUT up!" It was just a whisper, but enough to make Mycroft blink. Twice. He turned his head back, facing to his younger brother who tried very hard to open his eyes. His parents and brother were watching the process, and when he opened his eyes at last, he locked them in Mycroft's almost immediately.

"They _did_ send me downstairs, didn't they?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse and feeble, but audible. His eyes glided down, noticing the handholding. He bit his under lip and swallowed hard. Mycroft lifted his hand quickly, and stood up. That was the moment Sherlock noticed his parents. He sighed softly and closed his eyes for a moment. "Yup, they DID send me downstairs."

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stood frozen, not able to say anything, feeling a bit awkward now their son was back among the living.

"What do you mean, 'downstairs'?" Mr. Holmes asked, just for the sake of saying something.

"Well, obviously I'm dead, and because of the fact you are here to torment me, I must not have gone where the angels are," Sherlock explained, closing his eyes again.

A soft, low chuckle vibrated through the room. The couple looked at Mycroft, who it was that made the noise. With a sigh of relief he said: "Well, Sherlock, I'm glad to have you back. Now if you will excuse me, I have a criminal to punish," and the tall man left the room, in a hurry, leaving Sherlock alone with his parents.

Sherlock refused to look at them. His father cleared his throat.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock sighed. "Are we doing the small talk now?"

"Sherlock!" That was his mother. His rather angry mother. "You answer your father, young man."

Sherlock quickly scanned her from head to toe. His eyes narrowed to make sure he saw it correctly, and what he saw caused him to fix his eyes on his father and answer the question with cold politeness. "Well, I suppose I feel how everyone feels when they've had a blow on their heads and two bullets in their bodies."

"Those were my words. How good of you to remember," a voice from nearby the door interrupted. "Oh, sorry, I saw Mycroft leaving, he told me the good news," the blogger added.

Sherlock brightened and tried to lift himself to see his friend better. With a broad smile around his mouth, John came closer and stood beside the bed, feeling a bit awkward. Well, how do you greet a friend, who has been on the verge of dying twice, when his parents were watching?

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat again. "I think we should leave you two alone, now," he said, rather reluctantly.

His wife nodded in agreement, but John interrupted; "Oh, no," whilst Sherlock said, "Yes, please." It caused his friend to send him a warning look. "Sherlock, you've been here, unconscious, for over 55 hours. They came here for you, and now you will allow them to stay. I'll call Molly and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson," John said, before turning towards Sherlock's parents. "Thanks, and if you would like to get some sleep, we live at 221B Ba-"

"Baker Street, we know," Sherlock's dad said, extending his hand to the small soldier. "We will pop by."

John accepted the handshake, and was moved by the large amount of emotion behind the simple gesture. John made a mental note to force Sherlock to see or at least speak to his parents more often.

"Thank you John, we appreciate that. Thanks for keeping us company," the soft voice of Mrs. Holmes added. First, she was at loss about what to do, but then she made up her mind. She hugged the man, pressing three affectionate kisses on the smaller man's cheeks.

"Thank you, for everything," she softly added, the meaning shone in her brown eyes, as she brushed away some imaginary creases in John's coat.

John smiled, allowed his eyes to indulge in the sight of a living Sherlock just a small moment more, and then left the room, which remained painfully silent after he had left.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Holmes sat down beside her son, and grabbed his hand in her own wrinkled one. She softly squeezed his and smiled at him when he turned his eyes on her. "Why does everybody deem it necessary to hold my hand?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.<p>

"Because, Sherlock, your mother and I thought we had lost you. You might not know, but you have a bullet that nearly pierced your aorta, a bullet in your side that nearly hit your liver, a blow on the head that nearly caused brain damage, and you had an inward bleeding which brought you into cardiac arrest and almost killed you," his father angrily said, a bit too loud for a hospital, but it did clear Sherlock's head.

With a tinge of softness in his eyes, he looked at his mum. "How did John take it?"

She smiled a bit. "Well, he had been waiting here for 48 hours on end, apparently. Just sitting here with you, he simply refused to go away. When we arrived, he finally admitted he was slightly tired and slept some hours at a friend's."

Sherlock sighed, and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, I just want to sleep…"

"Sherlock dear, I am afraid the anesthesia is still working on you," his father said, his anger had faded.

Suddenly, John's head peeped around the door's edge. "Ah, you're still awake, good. Molly and Lestrade are sending you their love, they'll come by to say hi once their shifts end. Oh and here," he opened the door completely, and revealed the greatest bouquet of flowers Sherlock had ever seen. "It's from 'neighbour Jim', but we don't have a neighbour called Jim, do we?" John asked.

Mrs. Holmes tapped her husband on the shoulder. "That will be our neighbour Jim, won't it be, dearest?" she asked, receiving a nod as answer.

"Jim who?" Sherlock asked, entirely awake again.

"Oh, I don't know, love," his mother said. "He had such a strange name. Phew, he has been living next to us for over a year now... An Irish name he had, didn't he, Henry?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered over to John, who stood in the doorway. "Could it be Jim Moriarty?"

"Oh, that was it, yes." Mrs. Holmes seemed happy at remembering the name.

"Mum, dad. Out. I need to speak to John."

Being used to this kind of behaviour, they left the room quickly. Once they were out of the room, Sherlock swung his legs over the edge, trying to pull out the wires and infusion, and leant on John for support trying to do so. "We have to go, John. Now."

"What! Are you out of your mind? Back. To. Bed. Now." John was adamant, pushing Sherlock back to bed.

Sherlock was furious. "John! That maniac has been living close to my parents for over a year. The smugglers, they were part of Moriarty's network. I have to stop them!"

"No, you're not going anywhere, not in this condition. You've barely survived this whole mess. Besides, you haven't spoken to your parents for ages which they told me themselves, so what would Moriarty gain by endangering them? Frankly, you are in no position to order me. You listen to me now. No buts, you obey me, and that's that."

The wounded detective opened his mouth to protest, but John silenced him by laying his index finger on Sherlock's lips. Embarrassed at the bold movement himself, John quickly removed his finger, seeing Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"Shh now. Everything will be alright. I'll phone Mycroft, he will take care of this. Promised. Now go to sleep, you need it," but he saw that his order was useless. Sherlock had already drifted off in what was, John knew, an involuntary and unwanted sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, what d'you think? :)<strong>


	5. V

**Not beta'ed yet, Probably will be soon :) Sorry for the wait, have been rather busy. Please enjoy.**

* * *

><p>"Yes, John. I am aware of the problem," Mycroft tried to calm the doctor down. "I've had an eye on Moriarty for ages, but he won't do anything to our parents. It's Sherlock he wants."<p>

John sighed, trying to keep his voice down because he was just outside Sherlock's room. He quickly glanced through the window and saw that his friend was sound asleep. Knowing that the detective was no longer in a life-threatening situation, John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was quite endearing when asleep. His legs and arms were sprawled all over the bed, a toe peeped out from under the blanket, his curls resting on the white pillow... He was restful. Sherlock was restful very rarely.

"John," Mycroft said, and John noticed the voice on the other end of the line sounded amused. "Try to keep your eye off my brother for now. I'm trying to explain."

John didn't even bother to ask how Mycroft knew.

"Good. Now, John, the point is, my parents' house and Jim's house are almost a mile apart. They are safe; I have had them under constant surveillance for quite a while now. Of course, out parents should never find that out…" Mycroft lengthened the following silence.

"Okay. But who will tell… him?" John asked, already knowing the answer. Who else would tell the detective, other than the long-suffering doctor?

"Oh, I am sure you will find a way." And the line went dead.

John felt frustrated. After a last look at Sherlock through the window, John slowly walked away. He needed sleep.

* * *

><p>"John?'<p>

"Hmm?"

"Stop staring. It's annoying." Slowly Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked a bit dazed at John, who sat in one of the plastic visit-chairs. The sleep had refreshed him, and he had popped by just in time to see Sherlock waking up. It was a new day, which meant Sherlock was officially no longer in danger.

"Is it?" John folded his arms, by no means considering stopping.

"Yes."

"Oh." Still there was not the slightest movement to indicate John was going to obey Sherlock.

"Hospitals are dull," Sherlock sighed.

John remained silent.

"Really, John. It is. Can't you bring me my revolver?"

Still John didn't speak. When he did say something, it was only to snap: "Well, it's your own fault, not mine."

Sherlock observed his quiet friend for some time, and then stated, sounding a little surprised, "you are angry with me."

John only nodded.

"You're angry with me because of… what?" Sherlock asked, looking really puzzled. "Because of me getting hurt?"

John waved vaguely with his hand. "Yeah, Sherlock, I think you could say that, yes."

"Why?" Sherlock tried to sit up a little straighter to look John in the eyes.

"Why do I even bother," John mumbled to himself, inhaling deeply to explain. He always explained, no matter how annoying Sherlock was. "Well, Sherlock, because it wasn't a pretty sight to see you lying with two bullet-holes in you, your blood everywhere, your pulse almost gone and your breathing like a empty balloon."

"You were worried." Sherlock stated, almost unbelievably.

"Yes, I think you could say I was, and I am concerned about you at the moment, too, if you don't mind."

"But I am fine?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow, his icy eyes piercing in John's, trying to read him.

"You are fine now, you weren't fine before. Over two days, you have been unconscious. Do you know how all this makes me feel? The lousiest friend on earth, that's how I felt."

"John, you shouldn't blam-" Sherlock started, but he was interrupted by John.

"Yes, I know that now. Your brother was so kind as to point that out to me."

A silence fell. John looked at Sherlock, who, on his turn, stared back.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Quite rightfully so, Sherlock." At last a smile broke through on John's face.

"What now?" Sherlock was slightly confused with the sudden turn of emotions on his friend's face.

"Nothing, I'm just glad to have not lost you which I thought I might have, back there. Promise me never to run away from me. Don't give me the look, Sherlock. I'm sure you would have felt the same way if I were shot," John defended himself.

Sherlock's grey eyes warmed for a second, just long enough for John to notice the change. S_herlock's promise._

John smiled and stood up. "I'm getting coffee. You want some too?"

Sherlock nodded in response and watched John leave the room.

When John returned, he found his friend crawling out of bed again.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John asked annoyed, putting down the cups of coffee on the bedside-table.

"I'm going back to Baker Street, I need to find Moriarty and protect my parents," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, although panting a little from the effort.

"You've just come out of your coma, Sherlock. No, I'm certainly not taking you home."

"Well, thank heaven for the London cab," Sherlock answered sarcastically, still continuing buttoning up his shirt with trembling hands. "John, I can't button the shirt up, can you give me a hand?"

John refused simply by a shake of the head.

"John, I'm asking you to help me.'

"Sherlock, Mycroft has this under complete control. You take it easy; take the time to recover properly."

"Well, I'm sure you can take perfect care of me at home," Sherlock persisted.

"I'm sure I could," John answered, looking at his friend who froze in mid-movement.

"You won't." It dawned on Sherlock. "Why ever not?"

John sighed and sat down on the plastic chair. "Because even when you are healthy it takes an enormous amount of patience to make sure you eat and sleep and take your medicines and take your rest… There's no way I'm putting myself through that, just because you won't allow your brother to take charge in this one. I'm not going to mother a sick, whining toddler."

"I'm not a sick, whining toddler, John," Sherlock said, trying to keep his balance and buttoning his shirt at the same time.

John watched him intently and thankfully so. Sherlock suddenly swayed on his legs and his reaction was too slow to grab the bed. John flew towards his friend and supported his friend, allowing Sherlock the time to steady himself again.

He helped Sherlock to sit down on the bed and lowered his head to level Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock, you can't do this. You're not strong enough. Please, for once in your life, listen to me. I'm a doctor."

""Yes, John. Thank you, but I'm perfectly aware you are a doctor," his sulking friend rudely answered.

"Good. Then ACT like you know it. You stay here, and don't move." John didn't wait for an answer, but just left.

* * *

><p>"Mycroft, John here. Sherlock insists upon going home, but I don't want him too." Mycroft listened attentively and when John had finished ranting he came up with the perfect idea.<p>

* * *

><p>"Ah, John. You are back?" Sherlock still sat in the same position, except for his shirt, which was buttoned up completely now.<p>

"Yes, obviously." John was still angry with his friend.

His friend narrowed his eyes and wanted to say something when a nurse popped her head around the door.

"Oh, sorry, Sirs. Am I interrupting?" She giggled girlishly, almost driving John up the wall.

None of them responded, so she glanced at the two of them and picked up the empty cups and glasses. With another nerve racking giggle she closed the door behind her after sending a fat wink towards the small doctor.

"Anyway, John, why don't you want me at Baker Street? You could take care of me wonderfully."

"I could yes, but you wouldn't let me." John felt awkward. He stood in the middle of the room, opposite Sherlock, who still sat on the bed fiddling with his cufflinks. The look in Sherlock's eyes invited John to tell him more. With a sigh John sat down too, next to Sherlock on the bed.

"Sherlock, you wouldn't let me," the doctor repeated himself, trying to form coherent sentences in his head. "You would refuse to eat the soup, you would destroy the flat or give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. You wouldn't go to bed, but fall asleep on the sofa. You would refuse me to refresh the bandage, because the case would be so much more interesting. I wouldn't be able to handle it, Sherlock. You need to be taken care of. And I won't be the one to do it."

The doctor inhaled deeply, he needed to catch his breath after such a long and quick speech.

He looked at his friend out of the corners of his eye, and, astonishingly, he saw a smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

"What?" An incredulous look appeared in his brown eyes.

The smile broadened and suddenly John found himself smiling too.

"Well, Sherlock," John looked at his friend. "I won't take care of you. But I do know some people who would love to. I think they are coming in at the moment," and he hadn't finished the sentence when the door opened and Sherlock's parents walked in.

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards his friend's face, noticing the rather playful evil grin. When he looked at his parents, he saw anticipation. _Anticipation_? Why would they feel that?

His mother fiddled with her skirt, her fingers trembling, and his father had his hands tucked behind his back, focusing his eyes on everything except his son.

"Well," John's voice broke the silence. "I thought, as you haven't spoken to each other in quite a while, you might want to catch up."

"Is this your idea, John?" Sherlock's voice could make ice feel cold, but John pretended he didn't hear the threatening undertone. "No, I can't take all the credit; Mycroft helped."

"Mycroft…" Sherlock growled under his breath, hardly audible.

"Sherlock, you should be more grateful towards your brother." That was his father, the sharp-eared ever-hearing dad.

He turned his ice-cold eyes at his father. "Why should I be?"

His mother joined his father in their argument, John momentarily forgotten. "Sherly, he has arranged everything for you. You can come with me, so you won't have to stay here. The doctors were reluctant to let you go, but John here was kind enough to promise and visit now and then."

"But the village is deadly boring, you two know that too.'

John raised an eyebrow. Moriarty nearby…? _That_ _was_ _definitely _not_ boring_.

"Well, perhaps it is, but you could go on lovely walks: fresh air stimulates the healing process. You can play the violin: George Smith still lives nearby and he has some interesting scores, some he has created himself. Perhaps Anna might care to pop by."

Sherlock's features softened visibly. "Anna? I thought she lived in France now." John didn't fail to notice the slight change in Sherlock's eyes. _Who was Anna?_

"She is visiting her parents like you should do more often, Sherlock," his father answered.

"Don't expect me to enjoy it, mum, dad.. I'm warning you, I haven't changed and I wasn't planning to."

"We know, dear, we know." His mother patted his cheek, and continued: "I'll pack your things; you two can walk to the car already. Henry, you will support him?"

* * *

><p>John fastened the seatbelt, and helped Sherlock silently with his. When he rose again, he saw the annoying nurse waving at them. "Again that smile," John softly whispered, which caused Sherlock to look behind and snigger.<p>

Henry Holmes turned the music on and relaxing classical music drifted through the small compartment of the car.

"You all have something with classical music, don't you?" John asked, randomly.

Mr. Holmes nodded, and Mrs. Holmes turned around to face the doctor. "Well, this George Smith we mentioned, our neighbour, is a music teacher. Taught Sherlock all there is to know about the violin. He always played for Mycroft and Sherlock when they were young, so they were brought up with it. What was your favourite score again, Sherlock?"

"Violin Concerto Number 2 in B, mum. Paganini."

Mrs. Holmes turned back again, and changed the cd for another. Not much later the first high notes flooded around the four passengers. Sherlock sighed softly and closed his eyes, leaning against the door in a relaxed position, obviously enjoying the music.

John smiled slightly and looked out the window. The landscape ran past, and so did his thoughts. When he looked back at Sherlock again, his friend was asleep. His arm in the sling moved slowly up and down with his breathing. The last notes died and Sherlock suddenly inhaled deeply, opening his eyes, locking in John's almost immediately. He smiled at John and looked out of the window quickly.

"And you can play this?" John sounds incredulous. He had never heard Sherlock playing that particular piece.

"Sure. Well, I haven't practiced that score for a while, but I must be able to play it."

Sherlock looked out of the window. " We're almost there. It hasn't changed a bit, dad," Sherlock commented at the view, slight wonder creeping in his voice..

"Of course it hasn't."

The rest of the trip was silent, just the classical notes were there to keep one's mind busy.

At last, when the wheels of the car scrunched on the gravel of the long drive behind the large iron gates, John's eyes widened. Sherlock looked at his friend's expressions with an amused glance.

His father parked the car in front of the house and helped Sherlock to descend the car. John was quickly out of it too and gaped at the sight before him. It wasn't just a house; it was a manor. "I-I thought your parents weren't that rich," John stammered, looking at Sherlock who was adjusting his sling.

"Well, they are not. This house is heritage. It's been in the family for ages. Mycroft and I help them to get by. Half of this house hasn't been in use for over 30 years. Are you coming in?"

"Ah…" John nodded, walking after Sherlock's parents.

* * *

><p>Sometime later, they were seated in the comfortable and rather homey living room. Mrs. Holmes brought tea and biscuits, which were gratefully accepted by the three men.<p>

"Well, Sherlock," she said when she sat down, "your own room, then? I'll make your bed as soon as we've finished tea."

"Thanks mum," he replied, sipping from his tea.

"John, would you like to sleep here for tonight?" Sherlock's mother offered, her offer accompanied with a hopeful glance from Mr. Holmes sr.

John nodded; glad he didn't have to go back right away. And sleeping here meant he could keep an eye on Sherlock for one more day, and perhaps find out more about Sherlock's youth. _And Anna… who was Anna?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I just love this piece of music, so if you want to listen to Sherlock's favourite piece: here it is: /watch?v=TwmFcu6QAqI on YouTube of course. **

**Reviews please? *uses puppy-eyes***


	6. VI

"John, would you like some more tea?" Mrs. Holmes asked, lifting the teapot from the table with an elegant movement.

John smiled politely and nodded. The tea was good, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were kind and attentive hosts; all John asked for when visiting people.

Sherlock on the contrary felt nervous. His best friend was chatting away cosily with his parents he hadn't truly spoken to for months, perhaps even years, and Sherlock suspected the two other Holmeses of spilling all the beans about his childhood. Luckily, it wasn't the case. Yet. But surely, at the end of his stay John would know all about his youth and, to be frank, that wasn't something Sherlock was particularly proud of.

"Sherlock dear," his mother interrupted his train of thought, "would you bring John to his rooms? He can refresh for dinner and change if he wants to." Mummy cast John a friendly smile, but John didn't fail to notice the curt glance she threw her son.

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet. "Are you coming John?" he asked, while trying to button his jacket but failing because of the sling.

"Ah, yes, of course," John said hastily, putting the porcelain cup gently back on the saucer. He followed Sherlock out of the room, through the hall and up the stairs.

John looked all around him, and stood still in the middle of the hall. He turned on his spot slowly, taking in all the ornaments; the painting, the busts and the carpets (Persian, expensive).

Sherlock stood on the fourth step and looked down at his friend, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You like what you see." It didn't sound like a question, and to be honest, it wasn't.

John turned around to face Sherlock, and opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock's phone beeped before he could say anything.

Sherlock fished out his phone, read the message and tucked the phone away again. For a split-second, Sherlock pouted but looked almost normal again before John could notice. Despite the injured shoulder and side, it didn't take Sherlock any longer than normal. John smiled and joined his friend, climbing the stairs and arriving at the landing. John's feet sunk in the thick carpet and John shook his head incredulously when he noticed.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

John grinned like an idiot. "Why did you tell me your parents weren't rich?"

Sherlock turned around to look at me, and grinned too. "I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable with them."

"But they are rich."

"Yes." Sherlock opened a door and entered the room. John followed him. His jaw dropped as soon as he saw the room. There was a canopy, two glass doors that opened to a balcony and there was another door that probably led to the bathroom. Thick curtains adorned the windows and the bed, and the thick carpet John had seen in the corridor covered the bedroom floor too.

John walked towards the bed and sat down, gaping around. "Really, Sherlock… this room might be bigger than our whole flat."

Sherlock smiled, but berated his friend nonetheless. "Don't be ridiculous, John." He made an inviting gesture with his unwounded arm. "Mummy said you had to feel at home. Hopefully this will work. Go and refresh yourself, dinner is served in half an hour. You will find your clothes in the cupboard over there," he motioned towards a chestnut closet, "your laptop is on the bedside table and your gun is in the top drawer underneath your socks. The medical kit is under your bed."

"How did y- oh never mind. Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, Mycroft. He texted me to tell me he expected you to gratify mummy and dad's wish."

John frowned.

"They want you to stay for a week or so to look after me. And gossip about me," Sherlock added bitterly. John tilted his head.

"You don't like my being here," he stated. His blue eyes scanned his friend from head to toe. "Why not?"

Sherlock didn't deign to answer, but instead walked over to the two doors and opened them. The fresh, pine-needle scented air drifted inside the room. He inhaled deeply and visibly relaxed.

John let himself fall backwards onto the bed and grinned at the ceiling. "Sherlock, I think I don't know you at all. I mean, you're brilliant and all, but all I know about your youth and stuff is just your rivalry with Mycroft and the upsetting of mummy. I just like to get to know the real you."

John closed his eyes and allowed himself to wander off with his mind. _Anna_. "Besides, I would love to meet Anna. Who is she?"

Sherlock was silent for a while, so long that John started to wonder Sherlock was still here. John opened his eyes, and saw Sherlock who still stood on the balcony looking around. He had the railing in a tight grip, causing his knuckles to turn white. At last Sherlock spoke uncharacteristically soft. "It's not that I don't want you here. You do not know anything at all that is true, and I, honestly, don't like the idea of you finding out. But that's not what I'm worried about." He turned around to face his friend.  
>"John, Moriarty is here somewhere; in my home-village, looming over my parents. The facts he sent me flowers when I got shot and that Anna is here now are what worry me. Those two things happening at the same time can't be a coincidence. It could be dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt."<p>

John remained silent.

"But," Sherlock continued in a lighter tone that was obviously faked, "mummy wants you to stay, so who are we to disobey? I'm sure you'll like Anna." He began to walk towards the door, probably to go to his own room.

"Sherlock, who is she?" John asked before Sherlock could vanish. It would be more difficult to engross Sherlock in a conversation such as this when they were at dinner with the four of them or at any later time. John had the feeling it was now or never.

Sherlock stopped dead in his track. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and said, without looking at his friend, "Anna was an old school friend of mine."

"I thought you always said you don't have friends," John teased, shooting back the words Sherlock so often used.

"I don't. Not any more." Sherlock's voice was soft and a bit hoarse.

John's smile vanished and the joke he wanted to crack died in his throat. "Gee, I'm sorry. What happened?"

Sherlock still didn't face John, but looked at his watch meaningfully instead. "Dinner's ready in ten minutes. I'd better get ready; it might take a little longer with my arm. I'll see you downstairs." Sherlock made a hasty retreat and closed the door behind him softly, leaving John to think and wonder about the situation he had found himself in.

* * *

><p>After the granted ten minutes, John had dressed in comfortable black trousers with a bright blue dress shirt. He inhaled deeply before leaving the room. He thought people changed for dinner only in the books and BBC series Sarah loved so much. Well, apparently not, because here he was. He changed for dinner. Hopefully they wouldn't serve him anything too exotic.<p>

When he walked down the stairs, he met Sherlock at the bottom of the stairwell. He didn't appear like he had changed at all, except that he had left his jacket in his bedroom.

John smiled at his friend and let Sherlock guide him to the dining room. Sherlock opened the door and John saw that Sherlock's parents were already there. The dining room was large (just like any room in this enormous house) and was largely occupied by a long table, the one that's used in movies. John grinned again, and caught himself doing it. He was smiling an awful lot in the past hours, and he had the suspicion it wouldn't go over soon.

Both men sat down, Sherlock beside his father and John opposite them, beside Mrs. Holmes.

"Mycroft will be here tonight, he said," said Mr. Holmes suddenly.

Sherlock moaned softly, but all three people at the table heard it.

"Sherlock!" his mother exclaimed, her eyes spurting fire towards her youngest son. "Mycroft helped you out many times; it's time you two start to behave." Her colour had heightened during her short lecture, which was why Mr. Holmes's stoical answer was so comical. "My dear," he said, "you know as well as I that Mycroft is a tad nosy. I can understand Sherlock completely. Sometimes that man gives me the chills as well. Sherlock," he addresses the grumpy-looking young man beside him, "Myc will only stay over for one night; something to do with a terror cell in Namibia, wherever that may be."

Sherlock smirked. His mother already opened her mouth to berate him again, but swallowed her words when the door opened and the man himself entered. He didn't carry his umbrella, which left the tall ginger looking oddly out of place.

"Mummy, dad," Mycroft greeted politely, pressing a gentle peck on his mother's cheek. "Sherlock, John," he nodded to the two other men at the table. "I'm just in time I see. Good."

"Oh, imagine Mycroft missing a dinner. The world would stop turning." John sighed inwardly; apparently Sherlock just couldn't resist the occasion to make a snide remark about his brother.

He noticed that Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes, but also that she didn't comment any further on it. Mr. Holmes just grinned, looking at his two sons at turns. He almost looked smugly proud, John noticed, and suddenly the doctor felt a pang of jealousy. All family he had left was his drunk sister.

Mycroft, ignoring his younger brother, sat down beside John and out of the blue relaxed in a way John had never seen him doing. Mycroft's long legs stretched under the table and the tall man removed his tie and jacket. John realised that both men, although one of them was the British Government and Secret Service on a freelance basis and the other a world-famous consulting detective; at home they were mere boys, scolded by their parents for misbehaving and arguing. John smiled; he had already begun to feel at home and looked forward to the coming week with pleasure. Which was good.

The doors opened again. A young girl, twenty years or so, dressed in a black dress with a white apron entered the room, carrying a bowl, of which the contents steamed happily. John felt his mouth water; the smell of the hot tomato-soup was truly delicious.

"Thank you, Mary," Mr. Holmes said, giving the girl a wink when Sherlock rudely refused his bowl to be filled. Mycroft held out his bowl and started to spoon the contents out of it as soon as the porcelain dish touched his plate.

"My dear Lord, Mycroft!" his mother exclaimed. "When was the last time you had some proper food?"

Before Mycroft had a chance to answer, Sherlock did it for him. "Look at his shirt, mum. Mycroft _dear _has had some food less than half an hour ago, in his car."

"Anthea had bought me a small cake to celebrate _your_ return, Sher. I was hungry and could not resist it," the eldest brother defended himself, the slightest hint of a blush creeping over his cheeks and throat. "Besides, you all know I can never resist Mrs. Hughes's soup."

Mr. Holmes coughed meaningfully and said when he had all the attention. "Remember we say grace before we start to eat, boys. And behave; we have a guest after all. Our apologies, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms across his chest, defiantly looking the other way.

John smiled politely at the older man and waited for the others to say grace. The remaining of the dinner passed by without any noteworthy developments, and after that Mr. Holmes offered some port and a cigar which John kindly and Sherlock rudely refused.

The party moved to the sitting room and John happily sat down on the soft leather sofa. It was warm and cosy, and soon John felt himself slipping away from consciousness.

"John, Henry and I have wanted to ask you something," Mrs. Holmes said, waking John up.

"We would love you to stay here for a week or so. We understand you didn't want Sherlock in 221b Baker Street in his condition, but we're very sure he likes your company here."

John looked up and met Mrs. Holmes kind eyes, a hopeful glance hidden in their depths. Mr. Holmes feigned disinterest, but he couldn't fool John. John understood they never spoke to their son often, and wanted to have him as close as possible.

John smiled at the elder woman and nodded. She smiled back, relief flooded over her face.

The good doctor got to his feet and announced: "I'm rather tired. I'm off to bed, see you all tomorrow then eh." He wanted to leave, but thought of something. "How late is breakfast?" he asked.

Sherlock sniggered. "If you ask Mycroft: all day."

"John, my dear brother is a bit resentful. Rest assured, I have to leave tomorrow. Even on a Saturday the government can't have a day off."

Mrs. Holmes shook her head, fondly smiling, and said to John: "anytime you like, John, but we will be awake at nine. Just sleep as long as you wish, you might need it. Goodnight."

John greeted them again and left to his bedroom and bathroom. He brushed his teeth, pulled on his pajamas and slid under the cool sheets. He sighed contently and closed his eyes. Life could have been lots worse. And so could Sherlock's parents. They were kind and, of course, knew how to respond to Mycroft and Sherlock's whims and little arguments. Perhaps they could go 'sightseeing' tomorrow? Perhaps Anna would have arrived already.

He was almost asleep when he heard a knock on his door. John grunted and slipped away from underneath the comfortably warm covers and opened the door. Sherlock stood there, in his pajama bottoms and dressing-gown.

"I think my bandage needs refreshing, John," he said, walking into the room and sitting down on the bed.

"Ah, of course. Sorry. I'll get my stuff. Does it still hurt?"

"Nah, it just itches a little. It only hurts when I move."

John appeared from the bathroom and fished his bag from underneath the bed. He pushed away the silk dressing gown and gently removed the bandage. There wasn't a lot of blood, which was a good sign, but as soon as the cloth left the wound it started bleeding.

"You need to take it easier, Sherlock. It hasn't closed as much as I would have liked to see." John fussed over his friend while refreshing the bandage and dressing.

When he was finished, he covered Sherlock's bare shoulder with the purple silk again and said jokingly: "off you pop. I want to see the whole village tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly and quickly left the room after having mumbled a soft "thank you, John".

John smiled and turned off the light again. For the second time this evening he slipped between the covers and closed his eyes. But this time he slept soundly until the morning.


	7. VII

"Nooo… go away," John moaned loudly, burying his head deep in the pillows and trying to cover himself with the snugly warm covers.

"John, wake up! It's 5.30 already!" Sherlock had John's shoulders in a firm grip and shook violently in an effort to wake the soldier.

"What? It's 5.30 _already_? Goodness me… what did I do to deserve this?" John mumbled when his pillow was snatched away from him forcefully. He surrendered and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked sleepily at his friend. His fully dressed friend, whose eyes shone in the comfortable darkness of John's bedroom.

Sherlock's arm rested in the white sling across his chest, and that caused John to examine his friend better. In London, well, actually always, Sherlock wore a dress shirt, straight trousers and a tight jacket. Now he wore jeans and a comfortable sweater.

John grinned as Sherlock whirled around the room and grabbed all the garments John needed.

"Come on, John! We need to hurry!"

"What for?" John languidly took up the trousers and shirt and got to his feet to walk to the bathroom.

Sherlock stopped dead in his movements and cast his friend a worried look. "Didn't you say you wanted to see the village?"

John sighed and closed his eyes warily. "Yes, I did. I just hadn't realised that needed to happen at 5.30 in the morning. That's all."

"Well, the bakery has the croissants ready at 6, so hurry up, or we will be late."

John shrugged helplessly and disappeared in the bathroom. Sherlock paced up and down the room impatiently, and grabbed John's hand as soon as he emerged again. "Come on."

"So much for croissants," John murmured, closing the bedroom door behind him.

The two of them descended the stairs and walked to the front door. Sherlock threw John his coat and opened the door. John shivered in the crispy morning coldness, the fresh smell in the air promised a beautiful day though, but Sherlock didn't seem bothered by the chilling air. Of course he wasn't bothered; he had the the-game-is-afoot look on his face again.

John quickened his pace until he was in stride with Sherlock again and together they walked the small distance to the village. John took in his surroundings appreciatively; the Holmes-manor was situated beautifully in the forest of pine-needle trees and now and then a rabbit popped up from the grass. John heard all kinds of birds, a woodpecker and magpies, and he even thought he heard a nightingale singing far off in the distance. The road to the house was long and straight and oaks were planted alongside the way. Now and then a side road appeared, and the detective and his friend took the second on the right. This road, although one couldn't call the sandy, worn path a road, led over a grass-covered, shallow hill, offering a magnificent view over the country. They strolled on, leaving the forest behind them, and at the bottom of the hill they faced a round, tree-rimmed square. It was silent except for two or three men and a woman crossing the streets, hurrying to their respective destinations. They looked at the two men who entered the village and greeted Sherlock, waving enthusiastically. Sherlock smiled and lifted his hand in return, but didn't waste any time and walked straight to the little, old-fashioned bakery shop across the square.

John half-expected Sherlock to burst into the little shop, but, surprisingly, Sherlock walked past the door and window, and disappeared in an adjacent alley. John went in as well and saw Sherlock on the point of opening a door there.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. His friend turned around to face him. "Sherlock, you can't go in like that!"

Sherlock shrugged and opened the door anyway. He shot John a glance. "I always went this way. I'm fairly sure good old Mr. Smith doesn't mind," and with those words he went inside.

John exhaled deeply and entered the bakery as well. The heat and bustle on the inside overwhelmed John for a moment. A short man with a red head of the effort, dressed in a white shirt and blue-white blocked trousers, was covered in flour and was busy getting bread out of the oven while three teenage girls stood by and waited for their boss to finish and make room for them. When Sherlock entered the baker's sight, he almost dropped the bread on the floor in surprise. A broad grin appeared on his face and eyes. He quickly removed the remaining bread from the oven and closed the hatches.

Two of the three girls gingerly picked up the hot bread and carried it away to the shop, whereas the other asked the man for money to put in the cash register.

When she had left too, after throwing the two men a curious look and greeting them politely, the baker came towards John and Sherlock.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes," he said, offering his hand welcoming. Sherlock took a firm grip and shook the man's hand, a smile sneaking over his face.

"Good morning Mr. Smith," Sherlock greeted. "Still enormously busy I see?"

The baker smiled and nodded, throwing John a look over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh, excuse me," Sherlock apologised. "This is my friend, Doctor John Watson. We share a flat in London."

"Oh, Hello Doctor, I've heard a lot about you" Mr. Smith said kindly, shaking John's hand as well.

"So, Sherlock," he continued, looking at Sherlock, "you're a famous man here, aren't ya? We all read Doctor Watson's blog ya know. Why're you here if I may ask?"

Sherlock lifted his wounded arm meaningfully. "A case went wrong; I got shot. I'm here until it's all healed again."

The old baker looked smug. "Well, you're very welcome to pop by here anytime. Belle, please fetch two hot croissants for me, will ya?" he addressed a passing girl.

When the girl had brought the two steaming croissants, the baker looked at Sherlock again, his eyes lightened up. "Have ya heard miss Anna is coming here tomorrow as well? She was supposed to get back here by yesterday, but there was something with her boyfriend who had to go on business trip. There're rumours she's preggy, ya know. Well, we don't know nothing, ya see, just rumours. Will you go an' see her when's she's here?"

Sherlock smiled and patted the man on his shoulder. "We will see about that, Smithie. I've got to go, I need to show John lots and lots of this place. Thanks for the croissants; I'll send Mary by to fetch some more."

The old baker greeted the men fondly and turned back to his work, shouting at some slow boy while taking more bread out of the oven.

When they were both outside, John took a bite from his breakfast, and hummed contently. "Wow, this tastes great!" He looked at Sherlock who took a bite as well.

"Yes, good old Smith hasn't changed the recipe over all those years. Remarkable, isn't it?" Sherlock closed his eyes when he chewed slowly. "They don't make them like this in London, now do they?" Sherlock almost proudly said.

Slowly, the two of them kept walking silently through the sleepy village. John's thoughts were completely occupied by all that had happened in the past hour. S

uddenly Sherlock said: "what are you thinking about?"

John shrugged. "Oh, it's nothing of importance, really."

Sherlock smiled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Do I have to deduce you, or will you tell it all by yourself?"

"Okay," John admitted. "I was just thinking about you."

"What about me?" Sherlock didn't attempt to hide the laugh in his voice.

"You're different here."

Sherlock turned his head to face John, looking almost intrigued. "Please, define different."

"Well, you were kind to Mr. Smith," John started, only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

"Of course I was. How can anyone be unkind to the baker?" Sherlock took another bite of his croissant, his eyes not leaving John for a second.

"No, I mean even _I _heard he made loads of grammar mistakes and you didn't even correct the man. You chatted with him and accepted his croissant... You never eat in the morning! Ever! You even refuse tea or coffee in the morning. You greeted the people in this village politely and, well, you just look relaxed now. It's strange really. It's almost as if you're happy to be here."

Sherlock didn't answer, but just smiled.

"No, Really. You look happy. Why? Are the people here different than our friends in London? Do you insult these villagers just like you insult Anderson or Donovan?"

Sherlock shook his head silently. "No. I don't. Mr. Smith is a man I've known all my life. Ever since I was a boy he was the baker here. We will go an visit Miss Madge today, and perhaps some old friends of mine. I just like to see them again."

"Old friends?" John stopped during mid-walk and gaped at Sherlock's back. Sherlock turned around and grinned.

"No, not all my old friends are like Sebastian. I doubt they'll have smugglers in this village."

"I thought you didn't do friends."

"Things… changed, John." Sherlock coughed and turned again, looking over the wide fields.

John started walking again as well, and soon joined Sherlock. "It's peaceful, isn't it?"

A soft chuckle escaped John's throat as he shook his head in disbelief. "Is there something in the air or water here? You look like a completely different man."

"Well," Sherlock started to defend himself, "the people here aren't stupid, and I… well, kind of like them."

John's grin grew wider.

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock snarled when he noticed. "Don't look so smug, it's not as if I'm suddenly going to play nice to anyone. I just happen to like the baker and my old teacher. May I? I don't see why you have to grin like some stupid idiot."

They walked around for half an hour more, before finding some obscure little path under the trees. It was worn, but obviously not used very often.

Sherlock entered like he walked here every day. "This was my shortcut if I wanted to go to my treehouse."

John almost choked. "You-You had a treehouse?"

"Obviously. You will be one of the few living humans to ever lay eyes on it… if it still exists of course..," Sherlock softly added. He ducked under some low branches, plowing his way through the low bushes.

John was stunned. It was getting better and better by the minute. Sherlock actually liked some people and was _kind _to them, Sherlock ate croissants from the local baker voluntarily, and he had a treehouse. John wouldn't have missed this for the world.

**A/N: Okay, next chapter we will meet Sherlock's treehouse; his Tree Palace. Excited already? You should be. We will also meet Miss Madge and Jeremiah Clarke; two persons who have been rather important to our dear Detective.**


	8. VIII

Sherlock and John were making their way through the shrubs until John had lost track of time. Suddenly, Sherlock halted and coughed a little nervously. '_Ha,_' John thought, '_finally, Sherlock is nervous about something. That's new_,' and he wanted to comment on his friend's weird behaviour, when he saw the source of Sherlock's nervousness as the detective pointed upwards.

Slowly, John took in their surroundings. They were in the middle of the forest; the noises from the road and from the waking village were distantly dim and almost imperceptible. Right in front of John, there was a particularly big and old tree; so big John and Sherlock could both hide behind it and nobody would notice.

In the stem, John could see some vague scratches. "What does that say?" he asking, pointing towards it while looking at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

"It says: Sherlock's Tree Palace," Sherlock answered, his unwounded hand buried deep in his trouser pocket.

"Ah," John commented humorously. "How old were you when you engraved that?"

Sherlock scowled and didn't answer, but asked instead: "do you want to see it from the inside?"

John nodded and Sherlock grinned. "Of course you do, John. I never expected otherwise."

He reached up to a burl halfway on the stem and pressed the darker wood inside it. John heard some soft rattle and suddenly a rope ladder fell down, dangling mockingly right in his face.

"Well," Sherlock said, "up we go!" He grabbed one of the two ropes and set his foot on the first step, climbing the rope ladder carefully.

John looked on with a worried expression on his face. "Be careful, your shoulder and side need to be indulged, Sherlock," but Sherlock didn't listen and just kept climbing.

Finally, Sherlock reached the treehouse. It looked like a large wooden cabin one can so often find in Switzerland. John shrugged, firmly grabbed a rope in each hand and swiftly climbed up until not much later he sat beside Sherlock. Their feet dangled free over the edge of the wood. John sighed contently and smiled.

The two men couldn't see much because they still were at tree level, but the restful noises from the birds and the safety of being high above the floor worked their magic.

After sitting there and just enjoying the other's company, Sherlock scrawled to his feet and offered John a hand to pull him to his feet. "Come, I'll show you around."

John wondered how much there could be to show him in just a small cabin high up in the trees, but when he turned around and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the cabin, his jaw dropped. He suddenly realised that Sherlock had made a tree house with _floors_; he could spot a small ladder in the far-off left corner that disappeared in a whole in the ceiling.

On the left side stood an empty book case, for the rest the room was rather empty.

Sherlock smiled when he saw surprise dawn on John's face. "It's nice, isn't it?" he asked proudly.

John nodded. "Did you make this all by yourself?"

"Well, Mycroft helped a bit with picking the right tree and getting me all the tools. Apparently our parents didn't like the idea of their seven-your-old son with a screwdriver, hammer, a saw and nails up in a tree."

"Well, I-" John shook his head in disbelief, "well I can kind of see their point…" he admitted. He was silent for some time, just looking at the wooden panels that formed the walls and sighed. "Just seven…"

Sherlock nodded.

"And you made a tree house with floors and hidden ladders-"

"Obviously."

"- because why would Sherlock Holmes own an ordinary, _normal!_, tree house?"

"Indeed."

"And you made it at the age of seven, on your own?"

"Yes."

"_Bloody hell._ Well, show me around then?" John scratched the back of his neck in surprise.

"Sure!" Sherlock cheerfully answered as he walked to the far end of the room, the boarded floor cracking in protest under his feet. He bent over a small table that stood against the wall straight opposite the entrance, and pushed forcefully against the wall. After some resistance, the wall gave way and two panels opened, allowing the light from outside to enter the dusty compartment. Sherlock clapped his hands together to get rid of the dust and looked satisfied.

"A window…" John muttered under his breath. He moved his legs and joined Sherlock's side just in time to see the young man press a button just beside the window, and suddenly a previously hidden light bulb flickered, flooding the room with light.

"AND a lamp. Now I've seen everything," John gaped.

"No you don't. The best is yet to come," Sherlock commented without looking down.

"Oh, really?" John said, mockingly. "Erm, 'Lock, just so I know... What exactly did you do here?"

He saw his friend's shoulders become rigid when the question had left his mouth. Sherlock slowly turned to face his friend, revealing the frown on his face to John.

"What?" the doctor asked jokingly, but he started to feel uncomfortable under the unfaltering gaze.

"You called me 'Lock. It's working already…"

"What is working already?"

"The tree house. I introduce you to an intimate part of my life, and you feel closer already."

John grimaced nervously. "Sorry, Sherlock. It won't happen again."

"No, it- it's fine." Sherlock turned around again and tapped with the tip of his right shoe on the floor, like he was checking for rot.

John was just about to ask what he was doing, when Sherlock squealed in delight and dived to the floor. He pulled out two boards and laid them beside him. He dived in shoulder deep and pulled put a big, strong-looking black box.

With a thud, Sherlock placed it on the floor and opened the lid. Gingerly he pulled out a microscope and showed John, motioning him over.

"To answer your question, John, I always carried out my experiments here after my mum forbade me to do it at home. Do you see the black spot on the ceiling, just there?"

John looked up and saw the mentioned spot.

"Well, that was after I mixed two acids together with sulfate and some gunpowder."

"Gunpowder!" John exclaimed.

"Yes," the detective answered calmly, "I needed to know how those four reacted to solve a case."

"And, how old were you exactly?"

"I was 15 at the time," Sherlock answered. "Well, shall we go upstairs? That's far more interesting."

He closed the two wooden panes that formed the small window and climbed the ladder to the next floor, John following him.

He looked around in the new room and grinned foolishly. The wooden floor was covered by a nice soft rug. There were multiple windows, some clearly self-made stools surrounded a self-made round table that stood prominently in the room, and a large wooden chest against the opposite wall on the right side of the window. On the other side of the window lay a heap of soft pillows, all kinds and sizes.

"This looked differently," John said, spinning on his heels slowly to take a look of the whole room.

"Yes, it does. I used to sit here. Often. I did some of the experiments downstairs because I had light there. Here, I preferred to read, and write letters and read over cases," Sherlock explained.

"Homework," John added, but Sherlock shook his head. "No, I did those at home. I wasn't allowed to leave the house before that tedious business was finished."

John nodded in understanding. "So, how many of your friends have been here?"

"Just two."

John pointed towards the wooden chest. "May I?"

Sherlock nodded and John walked over to the other side of the room, while Sherlock sat down on a stool near the round table after he had pulled out some files from a nearby cabinet.

John knelt down beside the chest and gingerly opened the lid. With a small squeak it gave way and revealed its contents. Sherlock threw him a look, but didn't comment when John carefully took out some of the objects that rested in there.

John laid all the items around him and took a good look. It really was an imaginative range. There were a couple of copies from books; Treasure Island, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Miss Marple's Short Stories and some copies from Shakespeare's tragedies and comedies.

John knew Sherlock read Shakespeare; he often cited small quotes from diverse pieces of his works. John could easily imagine Sherlock to read Treasure Island; Sherlock initially had wanted to be a pirate (if Mycroft was to be trusted on that point). However, John could hardly believe Sherlock to read Jane Austen or Brontë. He sat there and thought and wondered. Suddenly it clicked.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

John collected all his courage and asked: "Anna did come here a lot, didn't she?"

Sherlock's head snapped up and when he saw the pile of books around his friend, he nodded. "Her and me, we always met here after we had finished our schoolwork. We spent most of our time here. I did experiments or did cases, and she would sit there, reading or knitting, or just talking to me. Most of those books are hers." Sherlock smiled sadly when he spoke, but when he noticed John's curious gaze, he quickly looked away.

"Well," John said, noticing Sherlock's uneasiness, "perhaps we'd better go to your home, I need some food." He glanced at his watch. "It's been 10 o'clock already, I'm starving!"

Sherlock and John made their way downstairs and soon they were both walking through the forest to the house.

None of them spoke much, both had a lot to contemplate and the comfortable silence between them was appreciated and preferred by both men.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock and John had reached the house, Mycroft met them just outside. "Well, Sherlock," Mycroft said, joining the two men inside, "I've heard you've already gone out to see Mr. Smith? News runs wild today. The telephone hasn't seen a moment's rest for the last half hour."<p>

"Oh really," Sherlock snidely remarked. "I thought you had work to do today."

Mycroft smirked. "I had. Finished it, in fact. Anyway, John needs breakfast; one croissant at 6 o'clock won't do at all. Miss Madge wants to see you afterwards, Sherlock. Don't disappoint her, brother dear."

Sherlock grinned joyously. "She inquired after me?"

Mycroft only nodded, and after saying goodbye to John, he walked the stairs and left their sights.

"Well, let's have breakfast then."

After breakfast which was also spend in silence, John and Sherlock set out to the village again.

"Are you sure I don't have to take a look at your arm, Sherlock? You're a bit paler than you were this morning…" John worriedly asked.

"Oh, I'm fine. Who cares anyway? You're going to meet Miss Madge!"

"Who is Miss Madge?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled. "She was my old primary school teacher. Kindest woman I've ever met. Of course, she turned out to be stupid just like anybody else, but she taught me to read and write when I was only five. So I kind of owe her."

"And you like her too. Wow, Sherlock! You keep surprising me!"

"What? How?"

John chuckled. "You just keep saying, about everyone I've met or going to meet today, that they are stupid, but somehow you care about their opinions, because we are going to visit them straight away. You're very different from the way you act when we're in London."

"Oh."

John kept giggling as he looked at his friend, who looked back with a questioning look on his face. "Don't look like that; it's nice to see this side of you as well."

Sherlock didn't look away, and suddenly John saw the look. The "we both know what is going on"-look. "Tell me, Sherlock," John said sighing.

"You blame it all on sentiment and respect for my childhood," Sherlock started. "Have you forgotten I received a bouquet of flowers from Jim Moriarty, who my parents both knew as our neighbour? I think he wants to get to me by hurting the people you seem to think I care for. I just have to make sure. There is something people don't tell me."

"What?" John exclaimed incredulously. "What do you mean? I thought everyone was very kind and open!"

"You see but don't observe. They sort of keep avoiding my eye and Mr. Smith especially seemed rather nervous. Something is going on, something that my parents, Mycroft and many people in this village seem to know, and I want to know what it is."

"You seriously think Moriarty is going to be a threat?" John swallowed hard. He was enjoying this stay, and had almost forgotten about this sick joke of Moriarty.

Sherlock nodded tersely. "I'm almost sure, John. If I don't figure it out before Monday, I'll blackmail Mycroft in telling me."

John and Sherlock had reached the village now, entering the square on the same way as the morning. Sherlock walked straight to a small house, squeezed between a sweetshop and another house. Sherlock knocked on the door and barely thirty seconds later the door swung open to reveal a lean old woman, with grey hair and wearing a simple green dress.

When she saw Sherlock, her eyes lightened as she spread her arms and locked the man in her thin arms. She fondly rubbed his back and grabbed his shoulders when she pushed him away to take a good look.

"You dress smartly these days boy. You look good; better than last time I saw you. You're no longer usi-"

"No, Miss Madge," Sherlock interrupted her. He got away from her embrace and stepped aside to introduce John.

"Miss Madge, this is John Watson, my friend and flatmate in London. We work together."

John smiled when he was presented by the sociopath himself as a friend. He shook the hand Miss Madge offered him and suddenly the thin arms embraced him as well.

"Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine," the elder woman said with warmth in her voice. "Come, enter. I hope you like tea? "

Both men followed the teacher inside. Sherlock went in last and cast a careful look over his shoulder at the square before he closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm really sorry, no Mister Clarke today. This chapter turned out to be longer than I expected it in the first place. Blame the Tree Palace, I thought it needed time to be written out. Don't worry, it'll turn out to be very important later on. Reviews are accepted as Hot Cupcakes; I love them and they inspire me to update sooner. Hopefully you like this chapter.**

**I think that in the next chapter we will see more of Miss Madge, Jeremiah Clarke will pop up (that's a promise!) and perhaps some swimming, horse riding **_ór_** more old friends; your choice! :D **

**Please leave a review? Last chapter received none whatsoever :'(**


	9. IX

"Well, she _is_ a very nice lady," John stated, sounding a bit surprised as he stepped outside over the threshold and closed the door behind him. Miss Madge's hip troubled her badly so they had offered to let themselves out so that she didn't have to get up. He looked at Sherlock and put on a defending look on his face as he crossed the square. "Well, I had expected some sort of witch-like person," John explained embarrassedly.

Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "You've read _Matilda_ too many times, my dear friend."

John shrugged. "The scenery here is perfect for stories like that. A small village," John started to count the things on his fingers, "which is one. A forest nearby, that's two. A mysterious woman everybody seems to know everything about but doesn't tell me anything about at all, that will be three. A big house, there's your number four. And there is of course this gigantically awesome tree house, which makes a total of five. There; it sounds like a good old-fashioned fairytale. Does this list suffice, by the way?"

Sherlock shook his head, trying to look disapproving but making a poor job out of it. He tried to hide a smile. "You did miss a point, John."

John threw his friend a surprised look.

"You haven't met Jeremiah Clarke yet." When Sherlock saw John practically wore question marks in his eyes, he elaborated, "He's the one who taught me how to play the violin," and that was all he said on the matter.

The pair of them walked on in silence. It was almost noon, and the village was a lot more awake than when John had laid eyes on it the first time. Men and women greeted Sherlock politely, casting curious glances at Sherlock's mysterious London friend. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, and walked on.

After ten minutes, the paved road stopped and devolved in a dirt road winding across the grass-covered gentle hills that surrounded the little village.

After a while, John saw a little cottage, plastered white with dark timbers creating a sharp contrast. The windows were adorned with pale blue wooden shutters that were thrown wide open to let in as much light as possible. The door was divided in two halves, and the top-half was opened as well.

To John, it made a country-like expression, relaxed and remote. It looked peaceful and very welcoming.

Sherlock opened the waist-high gate created to allow the visitor inside the whitewashed fence. He pushed it open and walked on, ignoring the creaking of the gate moving in its hinges.

John followed, closing the gate behind him. The walk towards the door was graveled, so John was sure the man living here and the surrounding neighbours must have all been thinking they were definitely _not_ breaking in.

They reached the door, and before John could protest and urge Sherlock to knock, Sherlock had already entered the house. John entered too, albeit hesitantly, and, after his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, he took in his surrounds. The kitchen was very simple and extremely tidy. There wasn't a speck of dirt to be found, and the dishes were all done. Sherlock saw it too and John couldn't help but notice the enormous grin that appeared on Sherlock's face.

Before he could ask what that grin was about, a woman appeared in the door opening. There was a surprised look on her face as she took in the unexpected (unwanted?) visitors. Her dark hair, put together in a ponytail, was stranded only slightly with grey, and only that, combined with small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, gave her age away (John estimated it to late-fifties). Her blue eyes sparkled and her lips twitched in a smile as she took in the two men standing in her kitchen.

Sherlock, however, was the first to speak as he offered his hand and smiled a polite smile. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is my friend John Watson. I was looking for Jeremiah."

She quickly wiped her hands off on her pink apron that covered her simple white t-shirt and faded jeans and shook Sherlock's hand.

John cocked an eyebrow. 'Sherlock was being very polite. Why?' he wondered, but then accepted the woman's hand and shook it kindly.

The woman smiled as she recognised the name. "Are you Mycroft's brother? He visited Jerry a couple of weeks ago. Well, you do look like him," she said. Suddenly her eyes widened. "Gosh, so sorry. My name's Robyn Cla-"

"Clarke, yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted. "Congratulations on your wedding. What was it, almost a year ago?"

Robyn didn't answer him, but instead mumbled, "your brother was a tad more polite," but she grinned when she said it.

John nodded. "I do apologise, Mrs. Clarke. My friend here has some difficulty in behaving now and then."

"You can call me Robyn," she said, "and I don't mind. Jerry has talked a lot about the Holmes' boys, so it's a real pleasure to meet him and his friend at last."

"Thank you for being such a good friend, John, but truly, I wasn't that rude," Sherlock almost snapped as soon as Robyn stopped talking. "Mrs. Robyn, I'm here to see Jeremiah, if you don't mind."

John rolled his eyes at his friend. "Not rude?" his eyes seemed to ask when Robyn motioned them to follow her outside. They walked around the house and entered the garden. It was filled with all kinds of flowers, and bees and butterflies were all around them.

The sweet smell of the flowers enveloped city-boy John, who had never really experienced something like this before. Before he could help himself, he said admiringly, "what a beautiful garden, Robyn. Is it a hobby of yours?"

Robyn nodded enthusiastically, and started talking about flowers and pruning and soil. John nodded now and then, and asked some questions. Sherlock followed them on a little distance, striding confidently through the garden after them.

It took a minute or two, and then the shed appeared in sight. It was made of wood, and rather large and luxurious for a garden shed. It was painted a dark green and there were many windows in it too. John would almost call it an atelier.

Before Robyn could open the wooden door, it was thrown wide open, revealing a tall man with a wild beard and unruly grey hair. He had bushy eyebrows and broad shoulders, making an impressive appearance. John was intimidated by this massive man, but the most striking of his figure were his eyes and hands; his eyes because they were piercingly light grey, and his hands because for such a grotesque man, they were almost slender like a pianist's.

When he noticed that his wife wasn't alone, but had brought two visitors, and when he noticed that one of these visitors was Sherlock Holmes, he positively smirked and stepped forward with his arms widened in a welcoming gesture.

"Be damned, if that isn't Sherlock Holmes," he bellowed while taking Sherlock's good hand and shaking it vigorously. "How very nice to see you! What have you done with your shoulder?"

"I got shot," Sherlock said simply, sounding curt but, John could see, being very pleased with himself to see his old teacher (friend?) again.

"Bit not good, young man," Jeremiah said pedanticly. It was only then that he noticed John. "Ah, you brought a friend?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "this is doctor John Watson, my friend. We share a flat in London to be able to afford it. John, this is Jeremiah."

"John, very nice to meet you. Are you the one that writes that blog? I really enjoyed the 'Aluminum Crutch' and 'The Geek Interpreter', they were quite poetic," Jeremiah chuckled, guiding his wife and his ex-student and friend inside. He closed the door and motioned towards some solid-looking but paper-covered chairs. "Sit down, sit down. Would you like some tea?"

* * *

><p>John had stepped inside the enormous shed, and gulped. There was a table that was completely covered in music scores, including the surrounding floor and chair. Cupboards covered two walls except for where the windows were. Some of them were open and revealed all kinds of brushes, jars of oil and new strings for violins and other instruments, and some more scores in binders in a row. Alongside the other walls, there were a cello, two guitars, a piano and a keyboard, and John spotted two violin cases. The whole scenery made a messy but somehow intellectual impression on the doctor. Jeremiah quickly made some room for his guests so they could sit down.<p>

When tea was finished, spent in quite nice chatting about wedding and cases and blogs and stuff, Robyn excused herself and left the shed.

"Well, Sherlock," Jeremiah said. "You still practice the violin I assume?"

Sherlock nodded and John couldn't resist the opportunity. "Yes, at two o'clock in the morning!"

Jeremiah nodded in approval, to John's great astonishment. When he saw the indignant look on John's face, he chuckled. "Honestly, it _is_ the best time to practice. I do it all the time too."

John's face must have expressed utter disbelief, because Jeremiah explained.

"It has to do with the condition of the air. When it's two o'clock in the morning, the dust has floated down on the floor, the air has stilled and cooled, so the strings are kept in the best condition. To play them at that time of day, or night, if you prefer, you'll be able to hear and feel the music better and the strings to vibrate more freely, thus your practice-time has the greatest efficiency, you see?"

He looked at John with his light grey eyes, a smile shining in them. "I taught Sherlock and Mycroft to do that all the time, because it is true. However, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes didn't really like my methods."

"And neither does Mrs. Clarke," Sherlock suddenly said. "That's why you practice here now. Great acoustics, I can imagine."

Jeremiah nodded and laughed. "You're still good, Sherlock. Very good deduction, but I won't ask you to tell how you did it. If I may ask… did you bring your violin?" he asked suddenly, unable to keep a certain sense of expectancy out of his voice.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, my arm wouldn't allow it. Well, my doctor here wouldn't." He winked at John.

"Oh," Jeremiah answered, looking a bit disappointed. "I was hoping you'd brought it anyway. I haven't touched a Stradivarius for ages, my fingers are itching for them!"

He sighed, resigning himself to it. "Can you still play the piano, then? I would love to do a duet again, it has been ages!"

"No, it hasn't!" Sherlock protested. "You still have students at almost any time of the week; two who play the violin, three that play piano or keyboard, one that plays a cello and some flutes and a harp. You're not allowed to complain."

Jeremiah faked embarrassment. "You're right, Sherlock. Well, allow me to rephrase myself; I would love to do a duet again with someone who can actually _play_ a duet. _That_ has been ages."

"Robyn told me Mycroft had visited," Sherlock objected.

"I did rephrase myself, didn't I? I said I would love to play a duet with someone who was really capable of that task," Jeremiah said, sounding very truthful and serious.

"Don't let Mycroft hear you," Sherlock warned. "He thinks he plays the bagpipes so well." Sherlock grinned as he stood up and walked over to the piano.

"Bagpipes?" John gulped. "Does Mycroft play bagpipes?"

Jeremiah grinned. "No, but Sherlock likes to call it that. Mycroft can play the piano and a flugelhorn," he explained, "but he has never been as good as Sherlock. Not that you were helping him, though," he accused Sherlock's back.

"You don't mind us playing a duet, I hope?" Jeremiah asked John.

John answered by smiling broadly. "I played the clarinet once when I was at school, but I don't think I'm still that good though," he answered. "But please, go ahead, I would love to hear some. When I'm awake at two o'clock anyway, I mostly enjoy his playing, so I'm sure I will enjoy it now."

Jeremiah smiled kindly and walked over to Sherlock, how was bent over the table with scores, flipping them through.

"Found anything after your liking?" he asked Sherlock.

"Ah!" With a triumphant look on his face and a small stack of sheets in his hands, Sherlock straightened his back and walked over to the piano.

Jeremiah looked over his shoulder and glanced at the sheets when Sherlock put them in front of him. "Sherlock!" he protested. "I wanted to do a duet! Why did you pick this?"

Sherlock just shrugged and removed his sling carefully so he could use both his hands.

Jeremiah shook his head in jest and turned towards John. "Show-off," he sighed, "now he wants to play Chopin's Nocturne in C-sharp Minor."

He faced Sherlock again, who was ready to start. "Don't ruin it, or I _will_ kill you."

John prepared himself to be treated to something wholly new, because he had never heard Sherlock play the piano.

When Jeremiah had sat down too, Sherlock placed his slender fingers to the keys and slowly but forcefully pressed them down to produce some sad, low notes.

When it was silent for a couple of seconds, Sherlock replaced his hands and continued equally forceful and sad, bit slightly higher and faster. His play conveyed a feeling of being lost and haunted in some kind of dream, John pondered.

The melody was so very much like the Sherlock he sometimes saw when there hadn't been a case, that he was worrying about his friend's well-being. It sounded really sad and even a bit dark, like there were many things John didn't know about nor ever would.

It scared him to see how Sherlock lost himself in his play. His friend sat with his back towards his small audience, but the way he held his shoulders and leant in while pressing the keys told John he was utterly lost in the music, much like he always did. His fingers rapidly flew over the keys as he did the faster parts.

When his fingers rested on the keys when the score was finished, John quietly applauded.

"Lento con gran espressione," Sherlock murmured softly before turning around and fastening his sling again.

"That was beautiful, Sherlock," John exclaimed, looking at his intelligent and talented friend. "I didn't know you could play the piano!"

Sherlock smiled and slid the scores together on a pile and placed them back at the table.

"Well," Jeremiah interjected, "you are right about that, John."

"What? Me?" John looked incredulously at the music master. "I was right about what?"

"Sherlock can't play the piano." He shot Sherlock a glance to see how he took the criticism. Sherlock didn't answer vocally, but looked intrigued at his old teacher.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to kill you as you didn't ruin it, but you did change many of the characteristics," Jeremiah explained. "Some changes were for the better, but some weren't. I know I told you to give a sheet of music everything you have, but I also told you that when you _do_ have a score you spill out your soul, if you want to, inside the boundaries of that score." He looked at Sherlock who understood the comments and nodded.

"You're right, Jeremiah," Sherlock said. "It's just…" He fell silent.

"It's just what?" his teacher encouraged.

"It's just that scores are so boring."

John, who was at that moment looking at Jeremiah, saw his eyes turning a couple of shades of grey darker.

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes and tried very hard to hold back his temper. "I'm assuming you didn't seriously mean that," he said coolly. "You know how I think about statements like that, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock noticed the changes in the man too, and smiled softly. "I know how you feel about them, Jer," he said, "but, really… sometimes working inside set boundaries can be so difficult and restricting."

The pair of them had seems to have forgotten about John, so the blogger decided to leave the shed, find some fresh air and let the two of them argue for themselves.

He slid outside and almost bumped into Robyn who was just on her way to check on her husband and to tell him his students had arrived.. "Ah, John, leaving already?"

John sighed exasperated. "Yeah, they're discussing the benefits of scores and the restrictiveness of them," he explained.

Robyn nodded in understanding. "I see. Do you have a minute? I need to ask Jerry something."

She opened the door, stuck her head in and said, "Jer, this girl is here, shall I tell her to go in?"

She quickly glanced at Sherlock, and added, "shall I ask her to wait five minutes?"

Jeremiah nodded thankfully and focused his attention fully on Sherlock again.

"Do you want some tea, John?" she offered when she had closed the door, and John was only too happy to accept that. Together they walked to the kitchen. "Jeremiah can get carried away when it comes to music," she said. "And I see your friend has the same obsession, hasn't he?"

John nodded, happy he wasn't the only one that didn't like music the way his friend did. He met the young girl Alicia, who was there to learn how to play the harp. Robyn put the kettle on and talked with her two guests animatedly.

* * *

><p>In the shed, the discussion had ended as abruptly as it had started. The two of them had sat down at the table, glancing over different scores.<p>

"I know they can work restraining," Jeremiah said, "but I've always considered the man that could allow emotions to flow _inside_ the score is the best musician and artist a man can ever be."

"But what if the performer feels a different kind of sentiment than the one expressed in the sheets?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.

"You can take another score, or create one yourself," his master explained. "There are so many scores and so many composers, there must always be something that fits your mood, and if it doesn't; create your own. It's not as if it's a crime."

"Then why are we having this discussion?" Sherlock wondered.

Jeremiah laughed quietly. "You made adjustments to one of my favourite pieces. I'm fine with adjustments being made, but you made them without thinking them over. I think that once a path is fixed, you must be careful to make some modifications, as it can alter a whole piece of music."

Sherlock looked up into the eyes of the old man. "Thank you, Jer," he said softly.

"It's fine, Sherlock. Well, once your arm has healed, you can pop by and show me some of your compositions then," Jeremiah said, standing. "I'm sorry, but there will be a student arriving within the next 5 minutes, and I need to arrange something for her."

Sherlock got to his feet too. "That's okay." He hesitated for a bit. "Has Anna been here already?" he finally asked.

Jeremiah's eyes flickered over Sherlock's face as if looking for something before he said, "no, I haven't seen her here yet, but I'm sure she'll be in church tomorrow."

He winked at Sherlock and opened the door for him. "Would you be so kind as sending Alicia up here? I'm sure she can't wait to get started. She's one of my most eager-to-learn students," he added proudly.

Sherlock strode off to the house and found his friend sipping his delicious tea. He told Alicia to go to Mr. Clarke and, having greeted (Sherlock) and thanked (John) Robyn, they left.

"So, what are we going to do now?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "What about horse riding?"

ToBeContinued

* * *

><p><strong>AN**; WOW! Thank you SO much for the reviews. I have a total of 23 reviews, 27 favs and **_49 alerts!_**. My gosh, thank you all so much!

I have rewarded all of you by writing a chapter of more than 3300 words. :D Thank you all so much, the amount of response was truly overwhelming. I love you all so very much!

There are quite a few, but I'm going to answer to each of you personally, so here we go.

**JForward**: I PM-ed you already, but the why and how of electricity up in his tree-house will be explained later on. Thanks for loving this story, I hope you liked this chapter.

**Sedeka**: I'm so glad you don't think I ruined Sherlock by him being OOC. He;s rather difficult to write, so I hope I didn't get him wrong in this chapter.

**MadTARDIStraveller**: Thank you for following and reading my story, it's enormously flattering to receive reviews like that. Did I live up to your expectations on this one?

**IamDoctorWholocked; **Well, you reviewed chapter 9, which was really great! Thanks for following my story, and especially for loving it.

**Merturr**: All chap's in one day? Wow, dedication! Anna will appear in chapter 11, for as far as I can see now, so I hope you can still wait that long. The Tree Palace will be important further on in the story, that's a promise.

**Furzzy15: **You read them in one day? That's amazing. It's so cool to hear that! Well, here's chapter 10, hopefully 11 won't be a long wait. :)

**ShilohHolmes: **That review really made my day. Thank you for being so very kind! Hopefully you liked this chapter too. Anna will appear in chapter 11, I think, and the tree house won't be long.

/watch?v=wnJzXgoMwVM if you want to hear the music Sherlock played.

If you have a little prompt, or some idea, maybe suggestions, you can put them in a review and perhaps I'll use them. I can't promise it though, but one can always try. Well, I'm off.

Ah,I will in this Author's note also shamelessly promote my other running story: The Best Things in Life. I've uploaded 3 chapters, one of which is a prologue, and I'm a little bit very much proud of that one. So if you would't mind checking it out? It's a JohnLock, but a very sweet one, that's for sure. Drama and romance will follow, just fyi. :) Byebye!


	10. X

"What?" John gaped at his friend who came walking at him on the gravel path, "horse riding? Are you being serious?"

Sherlock nodded, but assured his friend quickly. "Not today, though. Perhaps tomorrow will do. It's almost tea-time, so I think we'd better head back. I'm sure you will be able to appreciate Mummy's tea. Shall we?"

He opened the gate for John and followed. When he turned back to close it, he saw Jeremiah looking at him, the look on his face indecipherable. Sherlock nodded curtly as a greeting and turned away to follow his friend.

When they entered the house half an hour later, it was very quiet. Sherlock threw his coat over a random chair (the nearest) and walked straight to his laptop which rested on the table. John hung both their coats on the peg rather automatically and asked his friend after his gaze had trailed around the room, "where is the book case?"

Sherlock made a fluttering movement with his good arm. "Library."

"Ah," John murmured mockingly, "library, of course. And, if I may ask, where is the library?"

"Upstairs, the double-doors room," Sherlock answered absently. "Oh, and John, would you mind bringing me the book that lies on my nightstand? I wish to read it."

John rolled his eyes but left the room without further complaining. He climbed the stairs and found himself standing in front of Sherlock's bedroom door. He bit his lip, he felt like invading Sherlock's privacy. Even back home, at Baker Street, he had only walked into Sherlock's bedroom once, when the detective had a violent flu.

He opened the door slowly and peeked inside. It looked a lot like his guest room, only a lot messier; much messier than he had expected.

Sherlock's room at Baker Street had been very neat, only the necessary stuff was present. But, John thought to himself, the living room was always filled with all kinds of rubbish.

John grinned. He was sure Mrs. Holmes would never accept a mess to be created in her house, and John couldn't disagree with her.

He stepped over the threshold and tried walking over to Sherlock's nightstand without standing on shoes, shirts, books, note blocks and even a baseball cap. Where Sherlock even _needed_ a baseball cap for was a mystery to John. The room was literally covered with sheets of paper, pieces of clothing, petri-dishes. The only thing that looked clean was the violin case in one corner of the room, and the nearby music rack.

He reached the bedside table in tolerable safety and searched for the book under a pile of various papers and dossiers. Finally he saw it: a thin book with a deep-blue linen cover. On front was written in golden letters _Treasure Island, by J.R. Stevenson_.

John grinned and shook his head in disbelief. Who would have thought; Sherlock Holmes doesn't read crimes or detective stories but something boyish as _Treasure Island_.

With the book in his hands he left the room, continuing his quest for the library. _Really, what house still had a library these days?_ John wondered as he tried to remember what Sherlock had said about how to get there.

When he finally arrived at the double doors, he pushed them open and stepped inside. His jaw dropped. It really _was_ a library. The walls were all covered with book shelves, and the shelves were covered with all kinds of books; old and new, dusty and clean all mixed together.

In the middle of the room stood a large mahogany table with a couple of comfortable chairs around it. He placed Sherlock's book on the table and slowly walked around the room, sliding his finger over the books present. At last he was happy to settle with a very expensive-looking edition of _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_, a book he had never read but the film had been great.

He picked up the book from the table, and with the two books tucked safely under his arm he left the room to join Sherlock in the living room.

When he entered the room, he immediately saw that habits are hard to kill, because Sherlock lay sprawled all over the sofa, with his shoes still on.

John decided not to say anything and just threw the book in Sherlock's lap.

"Thanks," Sherlock murmured.

"You're welcome," John said good-humouredly. He was looking forward to just a quiet night in, reading and in nice company.

When John had been reading for over a good hour, he felt like drinking some tea.

"Sherlock?" He lifted his head to look at his friend but the sofa was empty. He glanced around the room, but the consulting detective wasn't present at all. John just shrugged and walked over to the kitchen to make some tea.

Some minutes later he sunk in the nice chair again and sipped from his tea. The house was eerily quiet; Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were somewhere they hadn't told John about, Sherlock had gone god-knows-where and Mycroft was in London at the moment.

He picked up the book and continued reading, but was interrupted some thirty minutes later when Mr. and Mrs. Holmes entered the room, closely followed by Mycroft.

John greeted them politely, but couldn't answer their questions about their youngest son and brother.

"Oh, poor boy," Mrs. Holmes suddenly said, after placing her hand tenderly on John's shoulder. "Have you been sitting here on your own without food?"

She took her coat off and handed it over to her husband who walked away to place it somewhere else.

John lifted his eyebrow at Mycroft, while mouthing, '_poor boy_?'

Mycroft just grinned and placed his umbrella against the chair in which he seated himself. He crossed his legs and leaned backwards comfortably. "So," he said, "you've been enjoying yourself I see. How were Jeremiah and his wife?"

John didn't even bother to ask how he did it, and just told them what happened and how Sherlock played the piano.

Mycroft chuckled softly. It was a soft noise John had not yet heard from the cool politician, but he found it pleasant none the less. Somehow the Holmes' boys were very comfortable in their parents' home.

"Yes, that's Sherlock; always refusing to listen to someone who really knows better."

The door flew open and Sherlock strode in, shrugging off his coat in the middle of the room. He fell down on the sofa and sighed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What now, Sherlock? I know you're just begging to tell us, so _please,_"his voice was rather mocking, "enlighten us."

Sherlock's grey eyes locked into his brother's. "I'm not _begging_," he said, narrowing his eyes at his elder brother.

"Oh, yes you are," Mycroft said, the tiniest of smirks playing around his lips.

"Definitely not." Sherlock sighed dramatically again and stared at the ceiling. Suddenly he looked fiercely at his brother and sneered, "why are you still here? I thought you had some very important work to do."

"Well, as you can observe the job is finished." Mycroft smiled comfortingly at John, which caused the doctor to be rather nervous.

"Neglecting your duties," Sherlock said, clucking his tongue in mocking disapproval. "That's not very good, brother dear. What happened to 'Queen and Country?'"

"Ah," Mycroft said, looking at his annoying brother. "Well, it's nothing that a few phone calls can't solve. And, besides, I am perfectly convinced that the South Korean economy can ruin itself without my interference."

John's eyes widened. "You fixed it?" His voice sounded rather hopeful.

"I fixed it," Mycroft nodded, "and now I can enjoy some restful days at my parental home, in peace and quiet."

Sherlock huffed and flipped over to his other side, facing his back at the room.

"Or," Mycroft added, looking at his sulking brother, "that's what I had rather hoped."

"Boys, dinner's ready," Mrs. Holmes announced. "Sherlock, you are coming too."

"No," he answered, not planning on moving any time soon.

"Sherlock Augustus Holmes," Mr. Holmes bellowed. "Come here, immediately."

John gulped. "Augustus?" His eyes wide, he looked at Mycroft who only shrugged.

"Lovely name, isn't it, John?" he asked while he got to his feet to walk over to the dinner table.

"Yeah," John nodded. "Augustus," he softly repeated to himself, joining Mycroft.

"Don't, John," Sherlock's deep voice warned from the sofa. "It's not like it's any worse than _Hamish_!"

When they were all seated at the table, Sherlock walked in too, obviously against his will.

"Sit down, Sherlock," his father warned when it took him too long. Sherlock threw him a dirty look.

"Don't look at him like that, Sherlock," his mother said. Sherlock sat down and stared at his empty plate.

Mycroft looked at his younger brother and when Sherlock lifted his head, they met eyes. He didn't read the usual unmeant hatred and venom in them, but something completely different. And Mycroft understood. He quickly glanced at John, but he was just talking to Henry Holmes, enjoying himself.

When he looked back at his brother opposite him, the look was gone. He cocked his eyebrow, but Sherlock shrugged and picked up his fork to play with the peas his mum had offered him.

"Don't play with your food. Dear Lord, I sound like the mother of a toddler," Mrs. Holmes said exasperated. "Can't you behave like a grown-up just this once?"

"You wanted me to come here in the first place," Sherlock said. It remained unclear whether he meant the table of just this house in general. John thought it was the first, Mycroft knew Sherlock meant the last. Sherlock picked up his knife after a while and started eating reluctantly.

John threw Sherlock a glance and lost his appetite. There was something really wrong. Sherlock had been very relaxed the past few hours, but now his shoulders were tense, he was snappy and uncomfortable.

John returned his attention to his plate. This food was simple, but really good.

When dinner was over, the party retreated to the sitting room. John had picked up his laptop and opened the lid. He opened Google and typed, 'Anna, France'. He found some matching information, and clicked on some links, but it turned out there were several Anna's, so she could be any of them, or none. John quickly gave up.

After the coffee, John excused himself to Sherlock and his parents. Mycroft had gone to his bedroom a while earlier to make some phone calls. John left to go to bed. He was tired and his shoulder hurt, but when he walked past Mycroft's door, he couldn't resist.

He softly knocked, and when he heard Mycroft's voice calling him inside, he opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

The difference between Sherlock's room and the room he currently was in couldn't strike John any greater. Was Sherlock's room a complete mess, Mycroft's was bare except for a bed, a desk with a comfortable chair and closet, and the necessary accessories like a phone and some books.

"Ah, John," Mycroft greeted him as he turned around in his chair to face the visitor.

"I don't disturb anything, I hope?" John asked, feeling a little nervous at the thought he had interrupted the British Government when he was working on something important.

"Oh, no, rest assured," Mycroft said. He stood up from his chair and offered it at John. John sat down, whereas Mycroft sunk down on his bed.

"Why the honour?" Mycroft inquired forthcoming.

John looked at Mycroft. "I was wondering if you noticed something about Sherlock during dinner. He was… different."

"Yes, I couldn't fail to notice," Mycroft nodded.

"Well, I think it has to do with Anna, whoever she is. She's arriving tomorrow, isn't she?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded again and sighed. He rubbed his suddenly tired face with both his hands. "And now you want to know who she is to Sherlock?"

Now it was John's turn to nod.

"Fine, I'll tell you as much as I can, but I don't know everything," Mycroft said.

"For as far as I know Anna Rimmer was Sherlock's only friend at primary school. She's smart and witty; the perfect match for Sherlock. When they were going to a secondary school, they both visited different ones, but it was always Sherlock and Anna after school time; inseparable, always together."

Mycroft smirked.

"After dinner he'd pretend he'd gone upstairs to do his schoolwork, but I knew he sneaked out of his window to sit with Anna in his tree house. When they had finished secondary school, Anna chose to go to Paris, to follow an education in singing. She has a great voice and I think it was a good choice to make. She and Sherlock met each holiday, as often as they could. But suddenly one holiday Anna wrote to Sherlock to tell she wouldn't be coming home. She had found a nice man who she was dating, and there was a big opera to prepare for, so she couldn't possibly leave France to spend some time with him. Sherlock didn't leave his room for two weeks after he received the letter. I tried to tell him she didn't hate him, and that is was only natural for friends to grow apart. I shouldn't have said that; Sherlock left university to start working with the Met and never spoke about her again. The following years Sherlock often wrote Anna, and she always answered his letters. Two years later she sent him a letter to tell him she was engaged with the producer of the musicals she performed in. she invited him to come over to attend the wedding, but Sherlock said he was too busy with his work and education."

John had silently listened.

"You must understand that Anna and Sherlock were extremely close. She was his only friend, she understood his intellect and she defended him when the other kids got rude. You can imagine Sherlock must have felt like being rejected when she said she couldn't come home and that she was engaged. I could see he was hurt, and his going back to London was his way of dealing with this… this thing that he didn't understand."

John couldn't help but ask, "what didn't he understand?"

"Anna. He couldn't understand why she didn't want to see him any more." Mycroft sighed deeply. "You know Sherlock. And I think now that he is here, and he can't go anywhere, he is forced to remain where he is now. He can't run away like he did all those years ago each time she came to visit her parents."

John understood. "He's afraid."

Mycroft agreed. "Anna divorced from her husband some five years ago. She came to London to talk to him, but Sherlock wasn't at home, because he was in rehab. She visited him there but he doesn't seem to remember. His detox was rather violent and he was more often unconscious than not. When she came to visit he wasn't even lucid. He knows she knows, but they never met up someday afterwards."

John nodded slowly. "How do you think they will respond to each other now?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I can't tell. We'll see tomorrow, won't we? What I do know, is that our granny died, shortly after Anna's wedding. I entered Sherlock's room after the funeral and saw him lying there, on his bed. I asked him how he was doing. He didn't answer. I sat with him, because I didn't want him to be alone. I tried to tell him it was okay to be sad, that's only natural when one cares. He turned his eyes on me. "All lives end," he said, "and all hearts are broken. Caring, Mycroft, isn't an advantage." That's what he said, and I'm sure he meant Anna with that too."

Mycroft smiled sadly, lost in thought.

John had heard enough and stood up to leave the room, but before he opened the door, he turned back to Mycroft. "All the villagers, they all seem to think Anna and Sherlock are still best friends."

Mycroft chuckled. "Mike Stone, he told he saw them kissing the last night before Anna went away to France, but Sherlock never said anything about that. Neither did Anna, but most of all, I didn't see anything. I would've known."

"Ah," John said, having his own thoughts about this matter. "Well, thank you for telling me all this, Mycroft. It makes things a lot clearer."

John opened the door, but Mycroft's voice called him back. "My parents may not have asked, but we will all visit the church tomorrow morning. I know they would appreciate it when you were to come with us."

John looked surprised. "I've never been to church. Do I need to bring anything?"

Mycroft shook his head. "You can borrow my book, it's fine. Breakfast is at 7.30 tomorrow morning. Good night, John."

"Good night, Mycroft," John said before leaving the room.

"Oh, and John?" Mycroft waited until John looked at him. "Thank you." _For being you. For taking care of him. For being here._

John walked over to his own room, deep in thought, and slid between the sheets ten minutes later. He was almost asleep when the door creaked, and a stream of soft light entered the room.

"John?"

John blinked and sat up. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"My bandages, they need some refreshing I think. Sorry."

John sighed heavily. "Couldn't you've asked earlier? I was almost asleep."

Sherlock shrugged. "I forgot."

"Fine. Let me get my stuff."

Twenty minutes later Sherlock left the room, but before he could close the door behind him, John said softly, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, peeking his head around the door.

John cleared his throat nervously. "You know, if there is anything you want to talk to me about, you can. That's what friends do, you see?"

A surprised look appeared on Sherlock's handsome face. "Wha- oh. You've been talking to Myc, haven't you?"

John admitted it, embarrassed. "Sorry. You didn't tell me anything about her, and I just wanted to know..." his voice trailed off.

A slight smile curled Sherlock's lips. "What do you always say? 'It's fine, it's all fine'? Well, it really is, John." He seemed to hesitate a little. "And thanks, John. I'll keep it in mind."

John smiled at his friend who closed the door carefully. He slid underneath the sheets once more, and closed his eyes, satisfied with today.  
>Well, that was chapter 10, folks. Not that I am really superhappy about this one, nothing really happens in here. Anyway, the action will be back next chapter, when we will finally meet Anna! :D Are you guys excited?<p>

Thanks to:

**MadTARDISTraveller**: Thank you again! I deleted the A/N, so perhaps that's what's wrong. I hope you liked this one, even though I didn't really :$ Next will be better, I hope.

**M**: Oof. That was really embarrassing! Blame the auto-correct and my Dutch-ness. I changed it, now it is good. Or at least better.

**IAmDoctorWhoLocked**: Wow. I am so flattered you feel that way about my story. Thank you for following this one. You're my favorite reviewer so far! :D

**MonkeysGoWoo: **Well, I'm not a musical person, I just liked the music and felt it fitted Sherlock. If I make any mistakes, just tell me :)

**Eternal Paradox**: Thank you for reviewing. I'm glad you liked it, hopefully I didn't let you down with this one.

Thanks to everyone for favoriting and alerting, it is very inspiring to receive feedback and comments on my story. Well, I'm signing off, trying to come up with something better next time. :P Anna will pop up, perhaps some old friends of Sherlock. And when I say friends… I don't mean it. xD Bye all, and please leave a review, it's very stimulating!

P.s. How do you feel about Anna? And just because I'm curious; what about Johncroft? Would you like that? xD Not that I'm particularly planning, but it might be very interesting.


	11. XI

A/N;

Okay, just a little warning; I'm not trying to ridicule the church or Christianity (I'm a Christian myself) but somehow I wanted to include such a character. I wasn't intending to offend or insult anyone, but if you do feel like that, please leave a review and tell me.

Chapter is dedicated to **IamDoctorWhoLocked**. Please leave a review, as they are very much appreciated and stimulate me to write faster. :D

UnBeta'ed and I only read it over two times, so any mistakes, please point them out. Okay, in the next chapter I promise some more old 'friends' of Sherlock's and some more Anna. xD Gosh I already love her.

* * *

><p>The next morning, breakfast was spent just like all the other meals John had had the honour of sharing with the Holmes' family. Sherlock bickered and refused to eat, Mycroft bickered and refused to stop eating, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes just ate and John sat in between. And, if he was fair to himself, he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.<p>

After breakfast, everyone went to their own rooms to get ready for church, and John was anticipating it greatly. He had only been to church once, when one of his fellow soldiers had married, and John had been paying more attention to the girls than to the sermon.

"Boys, we're leaving!" Mrs. Holmes shouted upstairs. John smoothed out some crinkles in his suit and stepped outside the room. He joined Mycroft and his parents downstairs, and the waiting for Sherlock started.

"Good grief," Mrs. Holmes sighed. "Not this again."

Trying to prevent an all-out war, John offered to go up-stairs and take a look. He knocked at Sherlock's door, but when he didn't receive an answer, he slowly pushed it open.

"Sherlock?"

Shortly after, the door to the bath room opened, and Sherlock's mop of curls stuck from behind it.

"What's wrong? We're waiting, and your mum said we're going to be late."

Sherlock sighed and stepped away from the door, allowing John a full look at the detective.

"Ah." John understood.

Sherlock's jacket was crumpled and the buttons of his shirt were only half-done. His shoelaces were loose and the sling wasn't fastened correctly.

"You could have asked me, you know," John said. "Why don't you just wear a comfy sweater like you did yesterday?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Sher, don't give me the look." John said, stepping closer to help Sherlock to get into his clothes properly.

"I'm going to church, so I need to look 'impeccable', John," Sherlock explained in his don't-you-see-it's-so-obvious-tone.

John, in the mean-time, was busy to adjust his clothes, buttoning-up Sherlock's buttons properly and fastening the sling like it should.

After a minute or five, Sherlock looked fine, and both of them went down-stairs.

"Finally," Sherlock's mum greeted her son. "Come on, let's go. The vicar doesn't wait."

The five of them left the house and walked towards the village. It was a beautiful morning, and because no one said a word, John heard the birds and the wind in the trees, and suddenly he felt excited. He was out of town, in the countryside and it was great. He had his best friend with him, and he was going to church.

Sherlock slowed down, so that John found himself side to side with Mycroft, who had left his precious umbrella at home.

John saw it too, and joked, "You've forgotten your umbrella, Mycroft."

Mycroft lifted his eyebrow but then he understood the joke. "Ah, yes. Well, I listened to the weather forecast and it doesn't seem like it's going to rain."

"Why do you take it with you anyway?" John asked, curious.

"Well," Mycroft started, but Sherlock interrupted, quipping, "Because his suits cost thousands, so he can't allow them to be spoiled with rain, whenever that may occur."

John grinned. "I never had that problem. Jumpers aren't that expensive."

* * *

><p>Five minutes later they crossed the square and John followed Mr. and Mrs. Holmes through a small alley, not very far away from the bakery shop. The alley ended in a gravel path, and led towards a small Gothic church. The doors were wide open, and a man dressed in black stood by the door, and a smile of relief lightened up his features when he noticed the small group coming towards him.<p>

He extended his hand and greeted each of them cheerfully. "I thought you wouldn't come today."

"Well," Mr. Holmes said carefully, "We were detained."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes junior," the Vicar greeted Mycroft when Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had entered the church. "And your brother I see. How good of you to come. It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

He noticed Sherlock's white sling and winked, "London's a dangerous town, isn't it? My sister complains about it all the time. What happened?"

Sherlock didn't smile at the vicar's jokes. "I got shot."

"Oh."

Even John thought the look on the vicar's face was priceless, but he shot Sherlock a reprimanding glance and extended his hand. "Hello, good morning," John said friendly.

The vicar, happy to be distracted from the Holmes' brother, gratefully shook John's hand. "Welcome at my church. I'm Richardson, the vicar."

John kept smiling, and answered, "I noticed. I'm John Watson, friend of Sherlock's."

The Vicar's happy face fell a little when he made the conclusion many people made, but he recovered quickly and ushered them inside.

"Well, I'll see you afterwards," he said, and left them standing in the cloakroom. Sherlock shook his head and faced Mycroft. "That man never changes, does he?"

Mycroft grinned and hung up his coat, and turned to face John. "John, you can take one of those psalm books, we'll be mainly singing from these. Sherlock, I trust you brought yours?"

Sherlock held up his book as answer after rolling his eyes and walked after his parents inside the church hall. John and Mycroft followed a little behind, and John seized the opportunity to ask, "do you think Anna's here already?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I believe her plane lands over half an hour, so she will be here around lunchtime."

Mrs. Holmes threw the two of them a warning look and Mycroft quickly explained to John, "The service is going to begin."

Richardson climbed the pulpit and waited until everyone was silent.

"Good morning, brethren," he said gravely.

With Mycroft on his left and Sherlock on his right, John relaxed a bit. He had never been at church, and he felt this was going to be a good introduction.

Richardson, in the meanwhile, continued talking, mentioning names and illnesses and births in the congregation, and at last, he said, "we are also capable of welcoming Mr. Mycroft Holmes and his brother Sherlock Holmes, who are both coming in from London. Also, we would like to welcome John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' friend who accompanied Sherlock to this village."

John nodded at the vicar when Richardson looked their way, and expected the man to continue with the service.

But Richardson glanced at his paper and, while his eyes searched the crowd, landed his gaze on a woman in one of the front pews, and nodded friendly at her. "Also, we like to give a warm welcome to Miss Anna Rimmer, who returned from Paris, France just in time to be present here."

John felt Sherlock tense, but the detective didn't look up from his book but instead kept flicking the pages with his thumb. John quickly glanced at Mycroft, but the man didn't move a muscle.

The woman's ginger curls bobbed up and down in answer, and the vicar squared his shoulders. "We will begin this day with Psalm 23, The Lord is My Shepherd. Please stand while singing this."

* * *

><p>One hour and almost 45 minutes later, the doors of the church opened and the people who had been inside slowly made their ways into the warm sunlight.<p>

Mycroft and John were the first to walk outside, and waited there until Mr. and Mrs. Holmes joined them.

"How wonderful," Mrs. Holmes exclaimed as soon as she saw Mycroft. "Anna's here already. I'm sure Sherlock is talking to her now. Shall we go home already?"

John wanted to wait, he was rather curious about how Anna would look like, and if he would like her, but most of all he wanted to know how Sherlock would respond to her.

Sadly enough, Mrs. Holmes tugged his sleeve and asked, "what did you think, John, seeing this is your first service you've ever been to?"

John thought for a moment and then said, "I liked it, his speech was rather good, very… spirited."

He thought about how Richardson had gripped the edge of the pulpit with his left hand, and raised his right hand in the air to emphasise what he was trying to convey.

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Holmes sighed happily, "that's our vicar."

"Good morning!" A cheery man with short dark hair interrupted Mrs. Holmes.

"Ah, Michael, how are you?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"Fine, fine, how is Sherlock doing? I saw he had his arm in a sling. Something bad?"

"Oh, he got shot, but he is doing fine now. How's Samantah?" Mrs. Holmes asked, trying to find the woman she was talking about.

"At home, with the kids," Michael explained, while glancing at John.

Mrs. Holmes noticed. "This is John Watson, he's a friend of Sherlock's," she said. "John, this is Michael Stone, an old friend of Sherlock."

John nodded and smiled friendly at the man in front of him. Mike chatted away with him, asking how he found the village and how London was.

Mycroft and Mr. Holmes were standing a few meters away, not saying anything to the other.

While chatting, the five of them slowly removed themselves from the church to go back home.

When they reached the square, Michael bade them farewell, and promised to come by later that evening.

When the remaining four arrived at home, there was still no Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes made coffee.

They all sat down, drank their coffee or tea and discussed the sermon thoroughly. John kept silent and listened about what they had to say.

Soon after the coffee, John picked up his book Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and started reading. Mrs. Holmes fished her embroidery out of a basket and Mycroft and Mr. Holmes sat down at the dinner table to discuss some important business.

Half an hour later, Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. "Mum, is there some coffee left?" he asked, sinking down on the sofa.

"How was Anna, Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

Sherlock looked up and faced his mother. "Anna?" His brow crinkled. "Oh, I just went to see Richardson to talk about his sermon. It was a very interesting one, wasn't it?"

"Sherlock?" His mother couldn't believe it. "You didn't even talk to her? That's not how we raised you, Sherlock!"

"What? Why should I talk to her? I haven't seen her for years!"

Mrs. Holmes sighed deeply and shook her head in disapproval. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, accepted the steaming cup of coffee and decided to let this rest.

The remainder of the morning was spent in silence, and only after lunch did Mr. Holmes turn on some classical music.

John stretched his arms and yawned. "Sherlock, I need some movement. Shall we go for a walk?"

Sherlock nodded and within minutes both men were outside.

John inhaled the air deeply and sighed contently. "It's good to be able to breathe some real fresh air, don't you think?"

Sherlock only nodded. "Sundays are still as boring as they were when I was just a kid," he sighed.

John chuckled. "I thought I would appreciate some peace and quiet after living with you at Baker Street, but it appears I'm wrong."

Sherlock remained quiet, until he suddenly asked, "that's a good thing, right?"

"Hm-hm," John answered.

After a nice silence in which they just kept walking, Sherlock broke the silence, saying, "I'm not going to talk about Anna now, John."

"I wasn't expecting you to," his friend answered.

"Yes, you were," Sherlock said, adamant.

John sighed. "Okay, I was."

They just kept walking. The gravel beneath their feet made soft noises as they walked on in silence. The sun shone brightly, but John didn't feel as happy as he did just hours before. Perhaps it had to do with Sherlock. Somehow John had to be more cautious with Sherlock here than at Baker Street. Sherlock seemed… depressed and well, a bit gloomy.

John cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Did you, or did you not talk to her?"

Sherlock suppressed a smile. "I said I didn't want to talk about it."

John grinned. "I know, yet I'm asking. Just answer me."

"I did not talk to Anna, I spoke to the vicar."

"About the sermon, I see," John added mockingly. "Look, Sherlock, I haven't been to church often, but even I know his sermon was kinda rubbish. The message was okay, but the man is just pompous. He reminded me a little of Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice."

"What?"

"Never mind," John grinned, not expecting Sherlock to catch the reference. "He just didn't seem like the man you would want to talk to."

"It's not about liking the man, John, he's the vicar. One goes to the vicar with questions about one's spiritual life."

"Oh." John thought Sherlock sounded rather serious. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were thinking about things like that."

"There are many things you don't know about me, John."

That was true, John thought. "Well, I can't just _read_ you, can I?" he asked, feeling he was beginning to get irritated. "It's not my fault. I tried to talk to you about so many things, I tried asking you about many things, but you just keep blocking me out, so of course I hardly know you!"

Sherlock remained silent.

"Well," John tried again, "did you talk to her?"

"No." It sounded curt and tense, conveying a story John didn't understand.

"Why not?"

Sherlock still remained silent, and John gave up asking things. Instead, he said, "look, Sherlock, I don't know what happened between the two of you, and I don't know how you feel about her or towards her, but she was your best friend who came a long way just to be here. You could just talk to her, you know?"

"I know, John."

"Then why didn't you?" John was puzzled. Sherlock's posture was strangely tense, and John felt there was more.

"Because I received a bouquet of flowers when I was at the hospital, don't you see, John?"

ToBeContinued


	12. XII

Sherlock turned around briskly and strode back the way he had come. John stood still on the middle of the road, watching his best friend running away.

Sherlock knew he was being unreasonable, but on the other hand he thought he had every reason to be unreasonable. See? Perfect.

Except it wasn't.

Was this was people called _sentiment_? He had thought he'd be fine so he could talk to her and get it over with. He knew everyone in the village expected them to talk and be friends, but Sherlock didn't want to.

When he had seen her bright red curls just a few pews in front of him, he had panicked. Not as much as when he was at Baskerville, but still, Sherlock had felt that weird feeling in the bottom of his stomach. In all honesty, he did want to talk to her and hear her voice again. It was just…

Sherlock sighed, irritated, and buried his unwounded hand deep in his pockets and tried to pull his coat closer around him. He wanted to go home, properly home which meant Baker Street, tea and his violin. He didn't want to be here, being vulnerable, with his parents and everyone that seemed to know him. There was no way he could protect himself here. That hopeless mind of him… It only made matters worse.

Okay, he had to be honest. He enjoyed Mr. Smith's company and the mothering of Miss Madge, and the playful scolding of Jeremiah. Hell, he even liked Vicar Richardson's company better than _hers_.

He closed his eyes and slowed down his pace. But then there was Moriarty. John and Mycroft didn't understand, but he could still hear the low-voiced warning.

_"If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." _

Sherlock shivered. He had thought that by burning the heart out of him, Jim had meant something to do with John. How could he ever have been so stupid? It was so obvious, after all. Sherlock grimaced resentfully.

_Sentiment_.

…

…

"Anna, did you talk to him?"

"No, _mum_, I didn't." Anna wiped the red curls out of her face, and focused her bright green eyes on her younger sister who stood in the door way.

"You should have, you know," Esther said. "I thought you fanc-"

"Shut up, Es!" Anna said, her cheeks flushing. "We haven't spoken for years, why should we start now?"

Esther sighed exaggeratedly. "Isn't that obvious? If you talk to him, I can get closer to him… Have you seen those cheekbones and those eyes…? They can look right through you!" \

Es only tried to be poetic, but it started to work on her sister's nerves.

"He can do that Es, and I can solemnly assure you that it's not a good thing." Anna closed her eyes as she let herself drop flatly on her bed, her arms landing above her head. "Sherlock Holmes is not an easy man to have around, and I think it's more than telling that he didn't want to talk to me."

"Does he know about Jamie?" Esther asked, eying her sister thoroughly.

"No. And why should he? It's not as if we're still friends." Anna closed her eyes and rubbed her face tiredly. "Argh!" she suddenly shouted, causing her sister to jump. "It's just insane!"

"What is?" Es asked silently. Her sister needed some time to vent her frustrations.

"It's just… I haven't spoken to, or thought about him-"

"That's not true, Ann," Esther objected.

"Okay. I haven't spoken to him for ages, and thought about him only really, _really_ rarely, then I see him, he is his annoying self and I'm going mad already!"

Esther grinned. "You know what I think, don't you?"

Anna opened her eyes and glared at her little sister. Well, little… Younger would be better. She really had grown since Anna went back to Paris. When did that happen? Anna couldn't help but notice that her sister had changed into a more mature person, and, Anna sourly admitted, she needed some advice now and then. Just not on this matter. On this matter, Anna could perfectly make her own choices.

"Esther dear, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm engaged to Jamie."

Esther shrugged. "Sherlock is much better looking. He's got black hair, Jamie's fair haired. Sherlock's got grey-blue eyes, Jamie has very dark eyes. Plus Jamie has that weird accent, Sherlock…" Esther fell silent.

"Yes?" Anna encouraged her.

"Well, it's not as if I heard him talk," Esther admitted reluctantly.

Anna sniggered. "Thank goodness you didn't. He has the poshest accent you've ever heard. Only Mycroft is worse."

…

…

John suddenly got very angry. "Sherlock Holmes!" he bellowed. "You git, stand still!"

Sherlock froze in his movements and slowly turned around to face his friend who came marching towards him.

"What is it, John?" It almost sounded innocently, and it pissed John off even more.

"What is it, John?" he mimicked. "What do you mean, what is it? You are not behaving normally, Sherlock. If this is one of your weird brain twists, then tell me!"

"Brain twists?"

John inhaled deeply and allowed the air to slowly escape through his parted lips. "Sherlock," he said, soft now. "I cannot understand why you don't want to talk to her, but I will once you tell me. You can't block me out on this. I told you I want to help, and I do. But the question is, will you let me?"

Sherlock shrugged, trying to keep up the façade of cool and distant. "I don't know, John. I think I'm just wired… I think I got myself a bit worked up, and now I need some time alone. To think."

John's eyes locked Sherlock's, and John tried to read Sherlock the way Sherlock always read him so easily. There was nothing. "Okay," he finally gave in.

"Good." Sherlock relaxed almost invisibly. "Why don't you go home? I'll follow soon."

John nodded and walked on. Sherlock stood on the road a bit longer, and when John had disappeared behind the bend in the road, Sherlock moved swiftly towards the side of it and vanished into the woods.

…

…

"Esther, if you don't mind, I want to spend some time alone now." Anna looked at her sister who seemed to understand.

She turned around, going to leave, but before she closed the door behind her, Esther said, "Talking to him doesn't have to mean anything, Ann. You have been friends for I don't know how long. You never told me what happened between the two of you, and I think it's none of my business, but I do know it's not good to let friendships like the one you two seemed to share fade away into nothingness."

Anna blinked. That was sound advice. "Thanks, Es. I'll keep that in mind."

Esther nodded, "And that's all I'm asking."

The door closed behind her, and Anna closed her eyes. Thankfully she could leave this stupid village in less than a week. If only Jamie had been here, things might have been fun at least.

At the thought of Jamie, Anna smiled. She was sure Jamie and Sherlock could be friends, they were very much alike. They had the same kind of humor, and, Anna suspected, even had the same brilliant intellect. It was just that Jamie seemed to know what he wanted, and that was Anna. And that was all the red-head asked for.

…

…

John entered the house and found the rest of the family in the garden. It was after all wonderful weather just as the morning had promised.

"Ah, John, there you are," Mr., _Henry_, Holmes greeted him jovially. "Oh. Where is Sherlock?"

John sat down and accepted the cold drink Mrs. Holmes offered. "I have no idea. He wanted some time to think. He does that, you know, even at home. But then he just lays there and I think it's more often I than he that leaves the flat."

Mrs. Holmes sat down too and donned her sunglasses. "We are very grateful for all you've done to him, John," she said. "We told you before, at the hospital, but we see now that he really has changed a bit."

John raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

Henry Holmes nodded. "He is kinder, he doesn't sulk at much and he even eats a bit. I think that is more than we once could have hoped for."

John smiled. "I'm just glad I found him. You know, he is more my saviour than I his. I don't want to imagine a life without him."

"We are just very glad to know he has such a wonderful friend. He didn't have many when he was young you know. Only Anna, and Christopher of course." Sherlock's mum sighed.

John's brow creased when he frowned. "I've heard about Anna from Mycroft, but who is Christopher?"

Mycroft sighed and looked up from his laptop to address John. "Christopher was the butcher's son. They always did experiments together, at the Tree Palace. One day when Sherlock was ill, had had caught something like the measles if I remember correctly, Chris decided to carry out some of the experiments on his own. I don't know what experiment it was because all of that is such a blur, but Chris was wounded badly. He died at the hospital six weeks later."

John swallowed with difficulty. "Why did he never talk to me about this? He never even mentioned Christopher."

Henry smiled sadly. "Sherlock had two friends. One of them died, the other disappeared to France. I don't think he wants to be in such pain ever again."

"Which is why we are so grateful he has accepted you. You really must be something," Mrs. Holmes added, with something akin to awe.

The blonde laughed nervously. "Really, I did nothing."

Mycroft smiled at him and his gaze lingered just a bit too long to be casual.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Holmes sprang to her feet. "The service begins in thirty minutes. Why is Sherlock still not here?"

"Relax, dear," Mr. Holmes said reassuringly. "We have plenty of time, and I am sure Sherlock will be there in time too. And if not, he can answer for his actions. John, are you coming too?"

John got to his feet. "Of course."

It might after all be the perfect opinion of seeing Anna.

…

…

"Anna!" Esther shouted up the stairs. "Are you coming too? Mum and dad are asking."

"No, I think I'll stay at home. I have a terrible headache. I think it must be the jetlag," Anna answered.

It was silent for a while, until Anna heard the pounding of her sister's footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and a wide-grinning Esther stood at the threshold. "Really, Ann? You have a jetlag? After a one-hour flight?"

Anna nodded.

"Fine! I'll tell mum and dad, but Ann… you owe me, girl. You owe me big time."

"Yes, yes!" Anna said, flapping her hands to usher her sister out of the room. "I owe you, I know!"

Esther left the room, purposely slamming the door, trying to make a point. Anna waited until all of her family had left the house and then left her room. She walked downstairs, grabbed a bottle of water and left the house, not forgetting to bring a key. She had learned from that one time…

A quarter of an hour later, Anna softly pressed the palm of her right hand against the stem of the tree. "SH's Tree Palace," she read out loud.

She then pressed the burl and stepped aside to avoid being hit by the rope ladder. She climbed the ladder swiftly and arrived at the first floor quickly. She glanced around. Nothing had changed, really. Would the light still work?

She crossed the room and pressed the button, and indeed, the small lamp flickered on, giving the room an airy feeling. The book-case was empty, but Anna knew the chest upstairs held Sherlock's dearest possessions. Would it still hold it?

She climbed the stairs in the corner and reached the second floor. The chest still stood in the corner. The only thing that struck Anna as odd was Sherlock's microscope. It stood forlorn on the round table in the middle of the room.

That in itself wasn't weird, but the fact there wasn't any dust, that was what didn't make sense. Anna carefully touched the lamp and immediately withdrew her finger as if bitten. It was still warm. Sherlock must have been her ten minutes out most before her. She suddenly watched the room with a whole other feeling. Sherlock had been here.

Realising he wouldn't return, she walked over to the chest and lifted the lid. She smiled fondly when she recognised her books: Jane Eyre, Miss Marple. Treasure Island.

She picked up the last book and fingered the cover. It was an expensive edition, and it still looked as good as new. Contrary to popular believe, Sherlock couldn't always guess the outcome of a book. He loved reading ever since he could.

Reading in fact, had saved the small, dark-haired boy more often than he would care to admit. Miss Madge must have had a sharp eye for this sort of things.

Careful steps on the first floor interrupted Anna's train of thought. She realised she still carried the book, but decided putting it back would take up too much time and instead put it behind the waistband of her swirly white skirt. She opened the window and climbed out of it, careful to get a good grip on the rough wood of the tree house. She pulled herself up and seated on the roof silently. She heard the footsteps reaching the second floor. She felt her heart beat fast, and thought about what could have gone wrong. The rope ladder lifted itself, so this person must be someone who knew about the burl.

Anna giggled. She behaved like an intruder. Well, by the man now inside she would be definitely regarded as such.

After some more shuffling, the footsteps went down again and Anna released the breath she had been holding.

She suddenly noticed she sat very comfortable here, and, having a book with her anyway, decided not to leave this very instant.

She removed the book from behind her waistband and again caressed the cover. She opened it, lingered on the first page.

_From Chris to Sherlock, _

_For your tenth birthday because R.L. Stevenson said that "X marks the spot"._

Slowly Anna turned the page and began to read.

_"The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow_

_SQUIRE TRELAWNEY, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17_ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof…_

_…_

_…_

Sherlock arrived at church with almost twenty minutes to spare. He knew how much his mother and father appreciated it when he showed up in time, so he obeyed. But only on Sundays, mind, he wasn't going to do it all the time.

Suddenly he remembered that, in his hurry, he had left the microscope on the table. It would gather dust, or be damaged by some animal. He left the pew and ran to his tree house. He climbed the rope ladder, en saw the light was still on.

How odd.

He could vaguely remember having it turn off. He shrugged. His mind wasn't in his actions and he had been in a hurry. He was only human after all. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and saw his microscope standing were he left it, undamaged at first sight. Good. He lifted it and carried it downstairs where he placed it under the floor. He left the tree house and reached the church just in time to slip beside John, who sat beside Mycroft who hissed, "Where have you been? You were almost too late!"

"Well, almost but not quite. Now shut up, Richardson wants to start."

…

…

"Anna, where have you been?" Anna's mother looked at her eldest daughter.

"I went into the forest, mum," she answered. "I needed to get the air of Paris out of my lungs."

Her mother smiled, "And right you are. Did you enjoy it? Was the Tree Palace still as beautiful?"

Anna nodded, speechless. "How did you know?"

Her mother grinned smugly but didn't answer. Instead she said, "Can you get the plates, dear? Dinner's ready."

…

To be continued.

…

A/N: Thank you for all your alerts and reviews! I love them! I do apologise for the time it took me to upload, I was busy and had some sort of writer's block on this one, so I have been spitting out some one-shots and a full-out story May I Kiss You? I hoped to have given you some insight in Sherlock's mind… I hope I haven't overdone it. I'd love to hear your opinions!

Special thanks to:

**IamDoctorWholocked:** Of course! You are amazing! This review too, thank you! They are very inspiring and help me to continue! Otherwise I would have given up already. Thanks for the cookies, I devoured them.

**A Fan**: Oh dear, I have gotten myself a fan. Is that good? Doesn't matter because you appear to know Pride and Prejudice. Thank you!

**lovelynobody00:** Thank you for reviewing. Have you read all of the chapts already? It will get better for the characters, at least I think so. Unless I am lying, which is rather plausible. And you are not stupid, you just don't think. :D Now, that's cruel. I hope it makes more sense after this chapter?

**Agent007Tomato:** Wow. Thank you so much for your kind words. I hope I'll be able to keep living up to that. BTW, I LOVE your avatar-picture-thingey.

...

Okay, that was that. I honestly don't know what will happen in the next chapter, any ideas are welcome. I'll try to update asap, but for now I'm signing off. Byebye!

- CowMow


	13. XIII

Welcome to **Chapter 13**! Don't forget to leave a review, I love them!

* * *

><p>"Good morning, John!" Mrs. Holmes greeted her guest when he entered the room early in the morning. "I trust you slept well?" She placed the plate with sandwiches at the table and looked expectantly at John.<p>

John nodded. "Very well, thank you," he answered.

Mrs. Holmes was dressed impeccably, which was rather surprising for this early hour. Her hair was twisted in a neat bun at the back of her head, and her makeup was applied perfectly. John felt a bit out of place in his worn jeans and jumper.

She smiled at him. "Don't worry, I think those jeans and jumper look really good on you. It's nice to see something like that for a change. I hardly thought it possible, but having three men in the house who only wear snug suits, it's refreshing to see some ordinary clothes." She motioned him to sit down. "Would you care for some tea?"

John smirked, but the Doctor Who reference was lost on his friend's mother. "Yes, please. How did you know?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Sherlock did not get his abilities from the milkman," she answered, grinning, as she sat down too. "I can't say I have that same analytical brain he and his brother have, but I do know my tricks."

John smiled at her but remained silent.

"Toast will be brought soon, Sherlock ate all," Mrs. Holmes winked at John.

John cocked an eyebrow as he sipped from his tea. "Sherlock ate all the toast?"

Mrs. Holmes shrugged. "Well, Mycroft helped, of course."

John smiled and downed his tea. "Where are they now?"

"I believe Sherlock is inspecting his Tree Palace, there was something wrong with the electricity and the lamp," Sherlock's mother answered. "I guess you can walk after him if you like. Mycroft had to go to London; some kind of crisis had arisen. Mr. Holmes has gone to town; he had to discuss something with the mayor. Ah, here is your toast. Thank you, Mary. Enjoy your breakfast, John. I have to go to pay Miss Madge a visit. I hope you don't mind eating alone?"

"No, of course not!" John hastened himself to reply. "Thank you."

Mrs. Holmes smiled at him and got to her feet. She left the room and not much later John heard her starting the engine of the car.

He slowly chewed his toast. Everyone was so busy in this house, which made John appreciate the silence and freedom these weeks promised to bring even more. He smeared some jam on his toast and served himself another tea. Lovely breakfast.

…

John put on his shoes and shrugged in his coat. It was a rather warm day, at least the weather forecast promised one, but it was still early so a coat might come in handy.

He opened the door and left the house, stepping in the crisp morning. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes in pure delight. Mornings like this were rare in London. John was raised in the countryside, and sometimes he missed the cold, fresh and quiet mornings. He started walking into the direction he knew the Tree Palace was.

"John!" he suddenly heard a familiar voice calling to him. A tall figure came running toward him, one of his arms waving in the air.

"Hi, Sherlock! I was just on my way to your Tree Palace. Your mum told me something was wrong with the lights?" John asked.

"I thought so, yes," Sherlock answered, "but they turn out to be fine. I think someone was in my Tree Palace last night."

John laughed and turned around to walk home with his friend. "Who would want to invade your tree house?" he teased Sherlock.

"Well, it can't have been Mycroft, as he was at the church the same time we were. I think it was Anna."

John smirked. "Well, that might be," he agreed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, John, was there something you wanted to do today?" he asked, spinning around.

John frowned. "You look very happy today."

"Yes, that is because I _am_ happy!" Sherlock exclaimed happily.

"Care to explain?" John asked, finding it hard to believe because yesterday Sherlock did not seem to enjoy it here one bit.

Sherlock smirked at his friend, a smile which lighted up his eyes and made him look years younger. "Do I need a reason?" he inquired, teasing.

John shrugged. "Well, most of the time you are reserved and aloof, only a case makes you excited. I was just wondering."

"I just like being here, I suppose. Mum and dad are gone, so is Mycroft, which means we can do whatever we like. Have you ever been on a horse, John?"

John swallowed. "No."

"Good!" Sherlock beamed. "It's time to get to the horses then! Oh, this afternoon I want to go to Jeremiah to ask him something about the violin I have at home. It has the tendency to be out of tune on cold days, I want to know what I can do about that."

"Well…" John mumbled under his breath, "Perhaps paying the gas bill in time would help…"

"I heard that, John!"

…

"Damnit! Horses are enormous!" John exclaimed as the two friends approached the fence that secluded the field where a horse was walking around while the other two were relaxing or standing behind a tree.

Sherlock laughed and opened a gate, motioning John to enter the field. "These are our horses," he said proudly. He pointed at a brown mare with a white spot on her head. "That is Diana, she is Mycroft's. Mine is the black one in the back, her name is Comanche," he said, pointing at a black mare somewhere behind a tree. "And last but not least, Cisco, he is my father's."  
>John saw a brown and white horse lying in the grass, munching some grass rather lazily.<p>

Sherlock stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew hard, creating a sharp whistle. The black horse in the back, Comanche, pointed her ears and looked directly at Sherlock and John.

She got to her hoofs and galloped towards her master immediately, causing John to jump aside. She snorted at Sherlock and ducked her head in his coat pockets. Sherlock laughed. "Easy girl, sweets are not good for you." He caressed her neck with his flat hand and combed her manes with his other hand.

She pushed him softly, and Sherlock chuckled low in response. "Okay, dear girl, but first I want you to meet John Watson, he's my friend!"

Comanche looked at John and tilted her head, or so John imagined. She pushed her head under his arm and snorted again. John stood stock-still, afraid to move and scare her.

Sherlock laughed again. "She wants a sugar cube. Here," he held out his flat hand, a sugar cube lay on the middle of it. Comanche gingerly took it with her lips and swallowed it with a content look on her face.

"Well, John, you may choose: Diana or Cisco," Sherlock said. "I would not opt for Diana, she is a bit fat and slow." He grinned to himself, probably he just cracked an inside joke of this family.

"Well, I want to begin slowly, thank you very much," John said, feeling a weird flutter of anticipation at the bottom of his stomach.

"Ah, John, you will do fine! Now, let's get the saddles and Diana, shall we?" Sherlock said, leading the way to a small, green-painted shed on the right side of the fence. Sherlock opened the door with a key he retrieved from his pocket. Comanche nuzzled her nose in Sherlock's coat and pushed him inside.

"Eager to ride, old girl?" Sherlock asked his horse while he entered the shed and exited it again with a saddle under his arm.

"'Lock, is it safe to ride, you know, with your arm and such?"

"Oh, my arm is fine," Sherlock dismissed John's worries. "Comanche will be very careful, she just promised."

John sighed and took over the saddle from Sherlock, who immediately entered the shed again to grab another one.

He dropped it outside and smiled at a restless Comanche. "I'll just grab the bridles and we will be fine, ready to ride."

John helped Sherlock to place the saddle on Comanche's back and winched when Sherlock whistled again, a different tune this time, and Diana came walking by leisurely.

"Still the lazy one, she is," Sherlock joked.

He quickly saddled both horses up and stepped aside to admire his work. "Three minutes, not bad," he mumbled softly. Then he clapped his hands. "Okay, ready to go, John? Good! Let's get you mounted first."

Sherlock motioned John to come closer. He laid a calming hand on Diana's neck and told John how to do this. He held the reins in place and showed John where to place his hands. "Hold the reins with your left hand, and place your left foot in the stirrups," he said. "Good, John! Now, place your right hand here, on her withers, and bounce up and down on your right feet to get up there."

John bounced and bounced, but he didn't get far enough. He panted, and whined, "Why are horses that big? It's stupid!"

"Next time I'll ask for Anna's _pony_. Don't complain, I'll help!"

When John bounced again, Sherlock placed one hand on his buttocks and pushed him up until he could swing his right leg over the horse's back. John slammed into the saddle and gripped the reins like a madman.

Sherlock giggled. "No need to grip them like that, John. Just hold them. Good. That was wrong in almost every aspect, but I trust you will learn soon enough."

John sighed and watched Sherlock mounting his horse like it was a London cab. He held the reins loosely in his hands and smiled at John. "Ready?" He patted Comanche's neck and whispered something in her ear. She responded by snorting excitedly again and moved her head quickly from the right to the left.

"Hold steady, we are waiting for John," he whispered in her ear. He then turned around in his saddle and looked at John. "Are you ready?"

John nodded curtly. _He was an army doctor. He was a bloody soldier! Surely he could manage a horse!_

He holds on to the reins and looked at Sherlock. "How can I make her walk?"

"Just clack your tongue," his friend answered, doing exactly this as soon as he said it. Comanche started walking happily towards the gate and snuffled when Sherlock opened the gate with his right arm.

Slowly, Diana began to walk and John beamed proudly at Sherlock, who was paying attention to Comanche only.

When they were both through the gate, Sherlock closed it again and lead the way into the forest. John kept his eyes on the small pluck of hair between Diana's ears, focusing on the movement en trying to keep into the saddle.

"John, press your thighs together, that will give you support," Sherlock instructed. John did so, and sat more secure immediately.

He smiled again and dared to divert his attention from the road and glanced at Sherlock. "Why Diana? Wasn't she the goddess of the hunt?"

"It is, very good John!" Sherlock praised, "But that has nothing to do with Mycroft's horse. Her nickname is Lady Di."

"Oh," John nodded.

They remained silent, except for the occasional instruction from Sherlock. They rode for what felt like days through the dense and quiet forest, never meeting a human being.

John didn't find it hard to imagine a small boy with riotous curls, galloping through the woods to empty his mind.

"Did Anna have a horse too?" he suddenly asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Cassiopeia, a white mare. She sold her when she moved to France. We used to ride together almost every night."

John smiled.

When they had been riding for two hours, Sherlock stopped his horse in her step and turned in his saddle to look at John. "We'll return soon, but would you mind if I'd go for a gallop now? Comanche has been itching for it since we left."

"Sure, go ahead!" John said.

Sherlock smiled and turned around again. He bent over Comanche's neck and whispered something in her ear. She responded by whinnying loudly and throwing her head up. Sherlock got a tight grip on the reins and clacked his tongue while he gently kicked his heels in her flanks. Comanche spurted away like a released spring. Enormous clouds of dust were sent in the air as Comanche's powerful hoofs hit the ground. John stared after his friend with open mouth.

Sherlock and his horse disappeared among the trees and John listened intently if he could catch anything, but it was silent except for the chirping of the invisible birds in the trees.

He doubted between staying where he was now or dismounting Diana so he could rest his leg and enjoy the warm sunbeams that peeped through the dense leafed roof that stretched over his head.

He decided to dismount, Sherlock would help him mounting when he returned.

He slid off Diana rather clumsily, but he reached the ground safely. He wound the reins around a tree, so Diana would still be there when he woke up.

He sank down onto the soft, green grass and sighed contently as he closed his eyes, his arms folded behind his head.

John drifted off to sleep in the warm caress of the sun and soothed by the lullaby of the birds. He didn't wake up when Sherlock approached him.

Sherlock dismounted as well, but didn't secure his horse. She wouldn't run away, she liked suger cubes way too much.

He walked over to John and knelt down beside his friend. He gently grabbed John's shoulder and shook him until John opened his eyes.

His eyes met deep green eyes and a wild mop of curls, the wind had really left its marks.

John grinned and propped himself up to his elbows. "Enjoyed your ride I see?"

"Yes, it has been too long," Sherlock answered.

"I was talking to Comanche," John joked.

Sherlock pushed John's shoulder in a bout of mischievous behaviour and sank down to sit beside his friend. "It's beautiful here, isn't it?" he sighed as he lay down and folded his arms under his head, copying John's posture.

"Yes. I can't believe you've never showed me this before."

It was silent for a minute. "Well," the answer finally came, hesitantly spoken out, "I didn't think you'd be interested."

John frowned but kept his eyes closed, he was too relaxed to get up now. "Why'd you think that?"

"My friends at boarding school and university never bothered to come home with me. So I stopped inviting them."

John inhaled deeply. "Was that Sebastian Wilkes?"

"Among others," Sherlock confirmed.

"You never had many friends, did you?"

"After Chri.. Anna left, none whatsoever," Sherlock said.

"Mycroft told me about Christopher, Sherlock," John said softly, after all he had heard the glitch in Sherlock's answer. "I'm sorry."

"Why'd you be sorry?" Sherlock asked, his brow crinkled in confusion. "You never knew him."

"No, I didn't," John agreed. "But he was your friend, so he must have been great. I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet him."

Sherlock chuckled softly. "He was amazing. He could tell jokes with such a straight face, like he believed them to be true himself. He loved to fool around, always teasing Anna and me, the teachers went crazy because of him. He defended me when Mike and Joe tried to kick me. Someone, I don't know who, bet them they couldn't tackle me. There were two of them, and of course I couldn't handle them. Chris just walked by and kicked their asses."

John chuckled too. "Sounds like he could have been a mate of mine."

Sherlock nodded, serious again. "You two are alike, yes. Always there to defend me, help me, scold me…" He turned his head to look at John. "He was marvelous, and so are you, John Watson."

John blushed and sat up. "That's enough flattering for one day, let's see how marvelous you think I am when I have a sore arse tomorrow." He wanted to thank Sherlock for the compliments; after all it wasn't often that Sherlock allowed a human to look into his heart.

"Shall we go home? I promised I'd call Harry," he said apologising.

"Of course, John." Sherlock got to his feet and helped John too. He held his hand a tad too long and squeezed it. "Just… thank you, John."

John narrowed his eyes. "For what?"

"Being my friend. Being here and proving to my parents that I can have friends." He let go of John's hand and rubbed both of his together. "Let's get you into the saddle, eh?"

Half an hour later, Diana and Comanche were walking happily into the meadow again, and Sherlock closed the door of the green-painted shed.

….

"Es?" Anna stood at the bottom of the stairs and yelled up, "ESTHER!"

"Yoohoo!" Esther's head popped up from behind her door and she beamed at Anna. "What's up?"

"I'm going to Jeremiah, I want to ask him if he wants to help to prepare these songs for when I'm back in Paris."

"Wicked and… what was the other again?" Esther asked as she bounced down the stairs.

Anna scolded her sister. "Careful! You will break both your legs one day."

Esther giggled. "I wish that to you every day. "Break a leg" and "toi toi", isn't that what I always say?"

Anna gave her a smack at the back of her head. "Get your shoes and coat, I want to go."

Esther made a face. "Yeah, yeah, big sissy, I am coming already!" She hopped towards her sister wearing only one shoe, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and shrugged in her short leather coat. She took the apple from between her teeth and beamed at her sister. "I needed some breakfast. Well, what are we waiting for? I am ready!"

Anna sighed. "It's almost lunchtime; you need to think about your health young lady!"

Esther stuck her tongue out to her sister. "Students are used to a rough life, sister dear. Your concern is touching."

…

"John? Are you coming to Jeremiah with me?" Sherlock asked, closing his book he had been reading the rest of the morning. They had just taken lunch and were ready to go.

"Did you bring your violin?" John asked as he saw the violin case that rested close to Sherlock's chair.

"Mycroft sent it to me, I received it this morning when you were making lunch for us," Sherlock smiled. "Anyway, ready to go?"

"Yeah, hang on!" John cried, trying to tie his shoe laces. "Almost there."

"I told you this morning I wanted to see him, why weren't you ready?" Sherlock asked.

John threw him a look but did not deign not to reply. He calmly put on his coat and looked at Sherlock. "I'm ready. Let's go, shall we?"

…

A/N: Ha, a nice cliffy for you! I'm sorry, but not really.

Very much thanks to all my alerters and readers, especially to:

**IamDoctorWholocked**: Did you read some of my other stories? I hope you liked them. I am especially proud of Too Late, which is rather sad and angsty, but I really, _really_ like it! Thank you for reviewing, I am glad you liked Anna and Esther. They didn't meet in this chapter, but they will very soon!

**Hollowgirl15**: Thank you for reviewing. Your review made my day! :D It's awesome to receive feedback, especially from people like you ;D

**Agent007Tomato**: You have a point there. I tried to sort of fix it in here, I hope it makes more sense now, but you were perfectly right.

…

Okay, the cover for this story is a dying rose photographed from the back; it's up to you to think about the symbolism behind it. J Let me know! (Btw, it's not betaed, but if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.) ok, I'm off, but I'll be back soon! Oh, and I don't know a thing about horses, all the info I used here I got from the internet. If it's wrong, please let me know.

Cheerios!


	14. XIV

**Chapter 14**

…

"Are you okay?" John asked his friend as he cast him a worried glance. "Perhaps horse riding was too soon."

Sherlock kept his look straight forward as he answered, "Don't be an idiot. I know Comanche and she knows me. We are fine."

"Yeah, but you were_ shot_, remember," John tried again. It only earned him a nasty look from the man who strode beside him.

"Fine!" John threw his hands exasperated in the air, surrendering. "Fine. Just don't come to me to complain to me when it starts hurting."

"Mind over matter, John," Sherlock mumbled. He opened the whitewashed fence that led to the small shed in the back of the garden.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said, mind over matter. Transport, remember? I'm fine." He stepped on the graveled path and walked towards the far end of the garden.

John looked at the house while he followed his friend. The shutters were open, but the door was closed. Perhaps Mrs. Clarke wasn't at home.

The two companions walked on in silence, but when they approached Jeremiah's domain, Sherlock stuck his index finger in the air. "Listen."

John stood still and listened, hearing a female voice singing, guided by the notes of a piano.

Sherlock grinned and placed his hand on the door knob, planning to open it.

John grabbed his hand before Sherlock could open the door. "The man is teaching, Sherlock!" he hissed angrily. "Give the girl some privacy!"

Sherlock grinned only wider and patted away John's hand. "Trust me on this."

John glared at Sherlock, who glared back until John slowly lifted his hand, allowing Sherlock to open the door.

"Thank you." Sherlock opened the door and stepped in with his usual flair. John entered soon after him, albeit more reluctantly. He remembered the embarrassment when someone entered the room when _he_ was practicing the clarinet.

He blinked when the girl just continued singing with the same, perfectly steady soprano voice. He didn't recognise the song, but it did sound modern. Now and then she fell silent, so perhaps it was a duet.

He closed the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the lighting in the room. Sherlock had sat down in one of the few chairs Jeremiah had and had his light eyes fixed on the red-haired girl who continued singing without as much as looking at the intruders.

In another chair, John spotted a girl with strawberry-blond hair, who was slightly younger than the singing girl, and who flashed him a very bright smile he couldn't help but return.

He looked again at Sherlock, who had a strange, soft smile in his eyes. John thought deep. Red-hair. Singing. _Anna._

Of course. He had to resist the urge to slap himself on his forehead.

Jeremiah bobbed his head curtly when he recognised John, but continued playing the song.

_"And know I will be here holding you, as long as you are mine." _The red-haired girl finished her song and squinted at Sherlock who clapped his hands slowly.

Jeremiah lifted his hands from the keys, ignoring Sherlock and John's presence, and turned on his piano stool to face Anna. "You did well," he said approvingly, "but you need to lengthen the notes more. You still follow the notes too much, you need to make the song more yours. How much time do you have?"

"Two months before the audition. Almost a year before the first performance," she answered, looking at her scores.

"Well done," Sherlock suddenly interjected. "But those long notes…I could hear you were short of breath."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Anna shot back, appearing not in the least insulted by Sherlock's words.

He got to his feet and let his eyes dart over his friend's form. His eyes narrowed for a few seconds before returning to cross Anne's, and he flashed a quick, almost fake, smile.

"I trust Comanche was fine this morning?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Yes, she was."

They looked at each other, silence hanging uncomfortably in the air.

John decided it was time to be introduced, and he coughed softly.

"Ah," Sherlock said, "This is Doctor John Watson, my friend and flatmate. John, this is Anna Rimmer."

John stepped closer, using this chance to get a good look on Anna. Her eyes were bright green, which created a sharp contrast with her bright red hair. She had a small nose and full lips, and freckles covered her face. He offered her his hand and shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you at last, I have heard a lot about you," John said.

Anna chuckled. "I can imagine. By whom? Mycroft, Sherlock or his mummy?" she teased.

"All three, actually," John smiled.

Another cough interrupted the three of them. "This is Esther, my little sister. Except that she isn't that little anymore. Esther, these are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson," Anna said quickly, stepping aside to make room for her sister.

"Thank you Anna, you are very kind," Esther pouted. "Hi. So, you are Sherlock Holmes. Anna says your accent is very posh. Is that true? I couldn't hear it after one sentence."

Sherlock cocked and eyebrow. "Does she say so?"

Esther giggled. "And yes, she was right. Awesome."

Anna grinned. "I think it has even gotten worse since I last saw you!"

"You speak like a French woman," Sherlock remarked, not carrying any real venom in it.

"Well, that is hardly a surprise, non? I have been living there for over five years."

They bickered on for some more minutes, until Jeremiah was sick of it. "Kids, stop it!" he bellowed, more for show than because of real anger. "Good heavens, a man can't work in such noise. Option A: you all go outside and be happy there, or B: you all stay here and keep your mouths shut! Your choice. Either one suits me just fine."

John shook his head. He still had to get used to Jeremiah's direct manner. "So," he said, facing Anna, "What song were you practicing? I didn't recognise it."

Anna smiled at him. "It's from a musical, called _Wicked_. It has been on stage in Broadway for over eight years, and now someone wanted to translate it to French to perform it there as well. The producer decided to do a French version, but an English version as well, for the tourists who come to Paris. I want to audition for the leading role of Elphaba, in the English version."

Esther nodded vehemently. "She's very good; she might even lead in an opera soon!"

That piqued Sherlock's interest. "What opera?"

Anna looked at him. "_Zaïde_, by Mozart. Hanz Friedrich Günz is rewriting it at the moment, it will be great. I am promised the role already, all I have to do is accept it."

Sherlock shrugged. "You have done operas before, what's different?"

"It's not about different or about my capabilities, it's…. let's just say it's personal."

Sherlock sighed, drawing John's attention to him. John blinked when he saw a strange emotion fleeting over Sherlock's face, before it was locked it away behind his usual cold mask of indifference. John was wondering why Sherlock was acting so smoothly, friendly, even chatty, but he also realised she was his childhood friend, that might help. Or he was acting _really_ well. He glanced at Sherlock's eyes, which flickered between John and Anna. He _was _nervous.

"Lovely, lovely," Jeremiah mocked, clapping his hands. "You kids want to play a duet? What about..."

"I know what you're going to say, Jerry, and the answer is no. My shoulder hurts," Sherlock said, rudely interrupting his teacher. "I can't play my violin now. Perhaps later."

"Your violin?" Jeremiah asked, his eyes beginning to shine. "You brought _your_ violin?"

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft brought it for me. I wanted to ask something about it. It's often out of tune when it's cold."

"Yes?" Jeremiah asked absently as he took over the violin case from Sherlock. He carefully opened it and whistled when he picked the instrument up. "It's been too long," he sighed. "Do you mind..?" he asked, looking at Sherlock while gesturing at the violin.

Sherlock smiled approval at his old teacher and looked at Anna again.

"You behave really well," Anna grinned at Sherlock, teasing him.

John noticed she said it mockingly, but there was an undertone of wonder.

She continued, "You didn't even deduce the hell out of me or my sister, you chat, you don't interrupt. What happened?"

Sherlock frowned. "Nothing happened."

John chuckled. "_I_ happened. He must behave, or I will be very angry and hide his cigarettes or my gun."

"Gun?" Esther blurted with wide eyes.

"Yes, gun. I was in the army," John explained. "I, erm, took the gun with me, but Sherlock's rather fond of using it to shoot the wall, or the lamps, or cups of tea…"

Sherlock just smiled at the shocked look on the blonde girl's face.

"But that's dangerous!" she gasped.

"Yeah," John agreed.

Some soft violin notes made the four grown-ups turn silent, all fixing their eyes on the tall, long-haired man with the delicate piece of wood between his chin and shoulder. The bow danced in his fingers, and his eyes were closed as he found the places where he had to put his fingers.

Sherlock blinked once, twice, and quickly made his way outside. Anna bit her lip as she looked at John, who was still gaping in wonder at Jeremiah.

She shook her head. "It's the song," she said apologising, and opened the door only to see Sherlock disappear behind the house. She sighed and ran after him, her sneakers making a lot of noise on the loose gravel.

John looked at Jeremiah. "What's wrong with the song?" he asked no one in particular but more to himself because he really couldn't find a fault in it.

When Jeremiah stopped playing, John asked Esther, "Where did they run off to?"

She shrugged and smirked. "Don't know, but I am sure they have loads to catch up on. So, Jeremiah, what piece was that?"

…

"Sherlock!" she shouted at her friend. "Where are you going?"

She didn't receive an answer, but when she rounded the corner, she bumped hard into Sherlock who had turned around and now came walking her way. He grabbed her by her upper arms, steadying her.

"We wouldn't want you to fall, would we?" he softly murmured as he let her go, his finger brushing the golden ring around her finger.

"I hope that the ring's not what upsets you," she sighs, straightening her blouse.

"Of course not!" Sherlock glared at her. "What's his name?"

Anna beamed. "Jamie."

Sherlock huffed. "Ordinary name."

"Well," Anna said, mock-pouting, "His last name is very unusual, so I think you might even like him."

"What's his last name?"

"Moriarty. Jamie Moriarty. He lives here nearby, I met him when I was celebrating the holidays with my parents. It's such a lovely, charming man..! Eh, I think he might be your parents' neighbour!" She playfully hit his good shoulder with her balled fist.

Sherlock swallowed hard and his face paled. His eyes scanned her again, more thoroughly this time, and he saw. The signs were there, undeniably _there_.

He balled his fists too, and greeted Anna curtly. "There is something that I need to do." He turned on his heels and made a hasty depart.

Anna frowned as she looked after her retreating friend's back. This was not her friend's normal behaviour, at least not towards her. Something was wrong, but what?

Right at that moment, her phone buzzed, indicating a new message.

_"Hi Anna, I can't make it today, I'm sorry. I will arrive tomorrow evening. Is this Sherlock fellow there already? I can't wait to meet him! Love you, Jamie."_

She smiled and hit the answer button_. "Yeah, Sherlock is here too. He's dying to meet you. Love you too."_

…

Somewhere in the hot French sun, on a small terrace surrounded by ivy, Jamie sipped from his second glass of extraordinary wine that afternoon as he placed his phone back on the table. Sherlock, dying to meet him? Anna dear was lying to him, or Sherlock was really stupid. Jamie chuckled. He liked the word-play.

Sherlock, _dying_ to meet him.

This was getting better and better.

… ToBeContinued

…

Sorry, bit of a shorty this time. :) BUT I do have a nice cliffy.

Thanks to all my reviewers, I treasure them!

**Achievableformoflight**: Thank you for all your lovely reviews! It's a pleasure reading them. Hopefully you will keep enjoying them!

**Agent007Tomato**: I know! Here, have another one xD

**Hanging in there**: … and you alerted anyway xD No, you are right, I think. But this is Sherlock we're talking about xD Call it creative freedom or Sherlockian mind over matter, I liked that chapter xD That's the curse of not having a Beta J

…

Thank you for all the alerts and favourites, It's lovely to find them in my inbox when I wake up! :D


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